


Like Real People Do

by carnivorousteeth



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adultery, Betrayal, Blackfrost - Freeform, F/M, Lots of Angst, Love/hate relationships, mild Clintasha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:19:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 47,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnivorousteeth/pseuds/carnivorousteeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight months after the Chitauri were defeated, a new, more powerful force threatens the Earth.  Natasha tries to move on from the disturbing revelations brought about by the war, but she can't help but feel as though she continues to stand still.  Her relationship is disintegrating, her grasp on her identity is tentative at best, and as her world again hangs in the balance, she is still bargaining for one man no more virtuous than herself.  Blackfrost, Post-Thor 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is set after the events of The Avengers and Thor: The Dark World. It's based largely off of the Marvel cinematic universe, although I incorporate certain background elements from the comics that I feel further enhance the characters. It starts off slow, but don't let that deter you! I hope to keep it interesting and update regularly, so thank you to anyone who takes the time to check it out!  
> This chapter includes a fair bit of gore at the beginning.

_Natasha's hands were red, slick, warm._

_She scrabbled at the wound, desperately attempting to scoop bits of blood and organ back into the dark hole, surrounded by wet, sticky, filthy cloth. Pieces of intestinal lining squished under her fingernails, trapped there as she teetered between holding pressure over the fleshy crater and filling it in with its own offal. Tears stung her eyes and her panicked voice sounded hollow in her ears, as though someone else were begging for help, begging for this man to live._

_The red climbed up her wrists, rolling easily off the specially engineered fabric of her catsuit. It stuck to her skin, glued down in the places where the blood had crept inside it._

_"_ _Natasha," a voice rasped, pulling a strained, subdued whimper from the person speaking for her. She tore her eyes away from the gaping body beneath her hands for the first time, and they alighted on the chiseled face of a middle-aged man, dark stubble clinging to his cheeks and a full mustache framing his upper lip._

_"_ _My Tasha," he repeated, the words icing over her heart. A bubble of bright blood popped between his lips. A thin red line slid over his cheek._

_"_ _It was you," he breathed, his voice growing weaker all the while. She shook her head, uncomprehending, so he rasped, "It was always you."_

_Her fingers, still struggling to staunch his bleeding, closed around something hard and cold. Her eyes blinked rapidly, and suddenly her stranger began screaming, wailing in the moonlight, snow collecting in the man's eyebrows and mustache as the light reflected off of his dull, clouded eyes. She leaned forward and felt her hands sink further into the man's stomach, and she recoiled immediately. Her hands burst forth from their position, buried in his entrails, coated in red. Blood flew in every direction, bits of destroyed flesh raining down on the light layer of pristine snow coating the ground. A gun, dripping with the innards of the dead man, gleamed in her stained fingers._

"NO!" Natasha screamed, her ragged voice ripping through the stillness of the dark room. Her bare chest heaved with the force of her gasps, her pale green eyes wide and bright with terror as she sat staring all around her.

A pair of hands seized her shoulders, and before she thought on her actions she whipped around, her hands moving imperceptibly quickly in the darkness. In the blink of an eye she threw her assailant away from her, a heavy thud sounding as his back connected with the floor. "Nat! Nat, it's me!" his voice urged. She could see his palms outstretched toward her in a gesture of surrender but hers were still curled into fists.

"Nat, it's alright! It was just a dream! You're alright!"

The red around the edges of her vision dissipated at the word "dream," and she squinted down at the man through the shadows. "Clint?" she asked, although the word was more a whimpered realization than a question. Her senses returned to her, and she realized that she was kneeling in the center of their bed, fists in front of her as though she meant to attack him again. He was on the floor, on his back, his expression quickly moving from pleading to pitying as he watched her sink down to the mattress again and hide her face in her hands.

"Hey, Nat—" he started as he pushed himself to his feet and climbed onto the bed again. Clint tried to slide his hand along the backs of her shoulders, but she cringed away from his touch. "Nat, it's alright. Whatever you saw, it's in the past. Nothing can hurt you now unless you let it," he tried to soothe, but she gave a rough sigh and turned her face away from him, her hands dropping down into her lap. Undaunted through his need to help her, Clint pushed, "C'mere, Tasha—"

"Don't call me that," she snapped at him before she slapped his incoming hand away, a little harder than she'd meant to. She didn't apologize as she slid off the mattress and stood, collected a tank top and the underwear she'd had on earlier from the floor and stalked out of the room.

The sound of the door crashing shut echoed through the apartment briefly before the stillness took over once more. Natasha was raw, an open wound, and the silence was like cold water numbing the red, inflamed flesh. She stood on the other side of that door for a minute that seemed to last an hour, her dull eyes staring out the window across the apartment. She couldn't hear Clint inside the bedroom, so she assumed he had laid back down again.

_Smart boy,_  she thought, not without some sarcasm. Usually he didn't let her get away so easily.

She finally took the opportunity to put on the clothes she'd carried out and then padded down the hall. A few minutes later she sat at the kitchen table, heels on the edge of her chair, calves resting against the table's edge, a mug of hot, black coffee clutched between both of her slender hands. Her eyes stared into the dark, glassy surface of the liquid. Ivan's tortured, accusing expression stared back at her. The clock on the oven read 3:26 a.m.

Natasha didn't know whether she was more upset by the dream or by Clint. Whenever she woke up screaming in the middle of the night like this she always felt like she was made of glass, fragile, transparent, ready to spill her secrets or shatter at the slightest touch. It was a horrible, horrible feeling, and some nights, like tonight, she simply needed to be left alone.

Clint didn't understand that. He always wanted to comfort her, to make her talk about what she'd seen, to make her get it off her chest so she could let it go. Heal. He didn't understand that she wasn't like him. She couldn't just sit down and have a conversation about the things she'd seen, done, allowed to be done. She couldn't let him see her this way, so vulnerable that she couldn't hide her fear, her regret, her guilt. He meant well, but she started to resent him for it a long time ago.

* * *

 

"You didn't come back to bed," Clint observed as he poured himself a mug of coffee. He took a sip and frowned when he realized that it was cold.

Natasha didn't answer him. She still sat curled at the table, her own mug wrapped between her hands, a thin layer of dried brown coffee stain coating the bottom of it.

The clock on the oven read 6:19 a.m.

"Look," Clint sighed as he placed his mug in the microwave, evidently too lazy to brew a new pot, "I know it was a rough night. Maybe if you talked about it—"

"No," Natasha said suddenly. Her voice was sharp, sharper than she'd meant it to be. "Not today, okay?" she added, carefully softening the edges of her words. Clint sighed, but he said nothing. She took that as a victory.

The microwave blared and Clint threw the door open in an effort to cut off the loud noise as quickly as possible. Natasha finally stood from her curled position on top of the chair, her knees cracking loudly. A grimace crossed her face as she stretched her tight muscles, an expression that wasn't missed by her partner. He furrowed his brows in concern and made to reach out to her again, to touch her elbow, but Natasha wasn't ready for that yet. She abandoned her original intention to set her mug down in the sink and left it on the table instead before she turned and took a few quick steps away from Clint.

What she needed was a shower. A very, very hot shower.

She couldn't help her mind from wandering as the water ran over her snowy skin, slowly easing the tension that had crept into her muscles throughout the night. It would be a difficult day, she could tell that already. Fury wanted to brief the two of them about a new mission in a little over an hour, her dream the night before had her on edge, and she just knew that Clint would be shooting her concerned sidelong glances every time he thought she wasn't looking.

Natasha hated those stolen glances more than anything.

It wasn't that she didn't appreciate his concern, except she didn't. At all. She understood that he loved her and wanted her to make peace with her past, but if such a thing was possible she was confident it wouldn't be borne of any of his efforts. She had done things, horrible things, and there were days when she opened her eyes and didn't know whether it was Natasha Romanoff staring up at her ceiling or someone,  _something_ , completely different. Natasha Romanoff wasn't even her real name. It was the Americanized form of her name, but sometimes it still felt like a different version of who she really was. There was no way that Clint Barton, in all of his forty-three years, could possibly understand what that was like. Only one person truly understood what any of those things felt like, and he was dead.


	2. A Difficult Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some mild strangulation.

Natasha's greeting call was met with silence, and she let slip a relieved sigh. She didn't think she could handle dealing with Clint that night, forcing herself to smile and laugh so he wouldn't ask her if she was okay for the ten thousandth time. Dropping her bag in the corner beside the door, she closed and locked it behind her before kicking her boots off as well. She tossed her keys into the bowl on the end table a couple feet away and then headed straight for the kitchen.

Her wrist cartridges clattered across the kitchen counter, followed by her gloves and then, not as wisely, her gun, still tucked into her thigh holster. She made for the refrigerator and leaned down to look inside, shifting a couple of things around before withdrawing a bottle of Guinness. One swift movement brought the neck of the bottle down onto the edge of the counter and sent the cap spinning off into the sink. It was a bad habit to have, Natasha knew, since there was a pronounced half-moon dent in the wood after months of her abuse, but she didn't care.

She'd had a hard mission, and she needed a drink.

_A dying fluorescent light flickered overhead, making the shadows along the long, concrete hallway dance across the floor. Natasha paid them no mind as she straightened up, three incapacitated guards left in her wake. One was dead. Broken neck. One was unconscious. Broken nose. Three broken ribs. Possible internal bleeding. One would lose the use of his left arm. Broken clavicle. Crushed brachial plexus._

_The Black Widow stalked down the hallway, her tread silent as the grave as she approached the thick steel door set into the corridor's dead end. It had been difficult descending through all three layers of the underground compound to get here; most of the guards and research personnel she had been able to slip past unseen, but she had done plenty of fighting, plenty of dragging bodies out of sight to buy herself time. She didn't know how she would find her way back out of the compound, but as long as she accomplished her objective she had nothing to worry about._

_Her ledger may have been written in red, but it was flawless._

_She extracted a small device from her utility belt and found the end of the set of wires protruding from it. After briefly inspecting the security panel beside the door, she pried it off the wall with a small screwdriver and carefully connected the device's output wires in the proper places. Six seconds later, the passcode had been generated, entered, and the door's lock released with a click followed by a satisfying hiss._

_Natasha whirled to the side and pressed her back against the cold steel, carefully counting to three in her head before she pulled the door around. A long burst of machine gun fire promptly exploded through the doorway, bullets embedding themselves in the walls of the hallway. Bullet spray. Panic. Fear. She could practically smell it from her position on the other side of the door._

_She waited. Another burst. The clatter of a magazine dropping to the concrete floor._

_Natasha spun around the edge of the door and dropped to her knees, sliding easily over the smooth ground. She circled her weight, turning herself over as she slipped between the final guard's legs while he fumbled to reload his weapon. One quick blow to the back of his ankle saw him falling to his knees in front of her. The flick of a finger released the garrote cable from her wrist cartridge, and before the guard could so much as cry out it wrapped around his neck and cut off his air supply._

_She gave a rough yank, pulling the guard's back against her chest and holding him firmly to her, giving him no room to get his hands between them or attempt to break her grip. His black hair tossed into her mouth and she spat it out, turning a glare onto the side of his face for the inconvenience. He was pale, sweating, his high cheekbone a sharp ridge framing a bulging, reddening green eye._

_Natasha could have sworn she saw the corner of his lips turn upward as he struggled against her._

_Her grip on the cable slackened._

_He choked in a shuddering breath._

_She wrenched her arm and snapped his neck._

Natasha's head hung low, almost resting on her chest as her gaze lost itself in the drain at the bottom of the sink. One of her hands gripped the edge of the dark kitchen counter. The other wrapped itself around the base of her beer bottle. Her shoulders shook slightly.

The War for Earth, as Thor so eloquently dubbed it, ended nearly eight months ago. The planet had already seen another invasion, by Dark Elves, no less, and come away mostly unscathed. Natasha enjoyed her recovery time from the war, pulled off countless missions since then, laughed, smiled, even managed to bond to a certain extent with the rest of the Avengers. Well, that might be pushing it. She and Steve had grown pretty close and Tony started to hate her a little less for what she did to him all those years ago, but at the very least nobody openly worried about her burying a knife in somebody's back anymore. On the surface, everything was going well.

Under the surface was a different story.

She told Clint that day on the helicarrier that she was compromised, but he hadn't understood what she meant, not really. He simply thought that Loki had made her stake in the war personal, had said something that made her want to kill him just as badly as the rest of the team did. The truth was that it went much deeper than that. Loki was always nothing more than an assignment, a threat that needed to be contained and, preferably, neutralized. Until that interrogation, although she applied the term loosely in this case, he was just one more mission upon which the fate of the world depended. She was used to those.

After that interrogation, he wasn't a mission at all.

Natasha hadn't wanted to kill Loki because he found a way to bury himself under her skin. She didn't want to kill him because he proved that he was one of the few people who had ever frightened her. She didn't even want to kill him because of what he promised he would make her lover do to her.

Natasha wanted to kill Loki because he had read her ledger, had understood what was etched into the flesh of the pages, and that was far more frightening to her than whatever tortures he could possibly inflict upon her.

Eight months later, sometimes she could still see his emerald eyes, bright with such horrible comprehension, staring back at her out of the darkness. Out of the bathroom mirror. Out of the snow falling on the other side of the window. Out of the concerned depths of Clint's grey eyes. Out of the drain at the bottom of the sink.

Eight months later, sometimes she could still hear his silky voice coiling in her ears, biting into her like a twisted, malevolent serpent.

_"_ _You lie and kill, in the service of liars and killers..._

_"_ _You pretend to be separate, to have your own code...Something that makes up for the horrors..._

_"_ _But they are a part of you...and they will never...go...away!"_

"Good evening, Agent Romanoff."


	3. Old Friends

Natasha froze. A chill clawed its way up her spine. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. A light sweat broke out beneath the collar of her catsuit.

"On Asgard, failing to greet a guest is considered very rude."

"On Midgard, breaking and entering is considered very rude," Natasha answered smoothly, straightening up and turning to face her intruder. Each movement was weighed and measured, her face a delicate, inscrutable mask.

The corners of Loki's mouth curled into a playful smirk. "I have broken no locks," he told her, holding his hands out to either side, palms up, exposing the woven leather armor shielding his torso.

Natasha cocked an eyebrow slightly as Loki drew in his arms once more, folding his hands over one another in front of his waist. Silence reigned for several moments until she offhandedly remarked, "I hope you aren't waiting for me to offer you a drink."

In her mind, she thought,  _I have been doing this job for far too long._  Any lesser spy might have burst into tears by now. It was a miracle she hadn't.

Loki, for his part, seemed quite at his leisure as he carefully strolled further into her apartment, his deep green eyes surveying the room. "That won't be necessary. Your surprise is refreshment enough," he mused, almost to himself until he looked at her again. His eyes rested on hers only briefly, long enough for him to toss her a knowing wink, before they continued their inspection of her living room.

Natasha didn't respond. The wink had set her on edge although she gave no indication.

"Thor has doubtless informed you of my heroic fall at the hands of the Dark Elves," he went on, the amusement in his voice only thinly veiling his contempt, whether for his brother or the Elves nobody could guess. "I assume you wonder how it is I have come to stand before you."

"Not how. Why," Natasha corrected coolly. She held no illusions about what Loki was and was not capable of doing. If she could realistically fake her own death on a number of occasions, it would make little sense for her to be stupid enough to assume a god couldn't do the same.

A low chuckle sounded in Loki's throat as he swallowed the minor slight. Natasha imagined that he had been looking forward to impressing her with his tale. If he took any offense, however, it had yet to show in his voice or his demeanor. "A tale for another time, perhaps," he suggested gently. He clasped his hands behind his back and bent at the waist, examining Natasha's iPod dock with the curiosity of a person who had never seen anything like it before.

Again, Natasha held her tongue. She refrained from looking to her weapons as well. They were too far away to reach for, and any unnecessary move in their direction would call Loki's attention. She was a living weapon, this was true, but her strength and durability were no match for Loki's Asgardian strength and durability. He wasn't as physically powerful as Thor, but he could snap her like a twig if he tried hard enough.

"Tell me, Agent Romanoff," Loki said easily, straightening and turning to face her from his position in the center of the living room, "how fares the Hawk?"

"Better," she answered simply. The corners of Loki's mouth twitched; she knew he correctly inferred that his domination, for lack of a better term, had caused some damage. There was no use pretending otherwise in her opinion, and she saw the question for the attempt to needle that it was.

"I'm glad to hear it," Loki answered, although his expression suggested that he was happier about what she implied rather than stated. He took a few steps around the couch, his pace measured and slow as he began to approach her. "And you, Agent?" he purred.

Natasha smiled politely as she countered, "Why are you so interested?"

"Simple curiosity," he grinned. "What of the rest of your...teammates?"

"What are you doing here, Loki?" Natasha asked, her tone light, almost bored as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Loki stopped about five feet away from her, a brief smile flashing across his angular face before it diminished into an expression of patient amusement. "So cold, Agent. Have I overstayed my welcome already?" he teased.

"I don't recall welcoming you to begin with."

"You will."

The corners of Loki's mouth curled upward, his lips parting, spreading into a gleeful, chaotic smile, and then he vanished in a flash of green light.

* * *

Natasha strode down the hall of the ninety-ninth floor of Stark Tower, her eyes already fixed on the other Avengers gathered on the opposite side of the glass wall. Each of them looked agitated. A few moments later she pushed the room's glass doors inward and was immediately overwhelmed by the sound of Tony all but shouting, "—every right to freak out! For Christ's sake—"

He cut himself off when he realized that the rest of the team had been joined by their last member, at which point he turned a look on Natasha that was at once frantic and angry as he loudly demanded, "Did you get a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past last night?"

Natasha's heart seized in her chest. She thought she'd hallucinated the whole thing. It wouldn't have been the first time she had an episode connected with traumas long past. "Yeah. He showed up in my living room, asked how I was doing and disappeared," she explained, paraphrasing as she had little desire to relive the details of that particular event.

"He was in our apartment?" Clint asked, his voice low and heavy with mingled fury and concern.

Natasha nodded. "He visit you, too?"

"Yeah, in Guam," he growled. "Got back as fast as I could, came straight here."

"What the hell does this guy want?" Tony asked nobody in particular as he raised the tumbler in his hand to his lips. The ice cubes knocked around and clinked against the glass, belying just how badly that hand was shaking.

Natasha knew he was still struggling with the after effects of the war. She couldn't imagine how nerve wracking it must have been for him to have his personal space invaded by its instigator.

"Look, everyone," Steve began, holding his palm up in what was evidently supposed to be a calming gesture, "it's no use getting so riled up. Nobody was hurt—"

"Yet," Tony put in, moving to set his drink down and then thinking better of it.

"Yet, you're right," Steve conceded, but he was undeterred. "It's bad news that Loki's alive, but it's good news that we know."

"We don't know why," Natasha put in, striding further into the room and standing beside Clint, her arms crossed over her chest. He glanced up at her from his position on the end of the semi-circular couch; she didn't return the look. "Unless he said something to one of you?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"He's planning something. Aliens, terminators, fuckin' dragons burrowing up from the goddamn mountains," Tony said tensely, taking another drink from his glass and then holding it to his chest like a security blanket.

It was then that Natasha noticed something strange. "Where's Thor?" she asked warily. "Last I checked he was still on Earth."

Tony held his free hand all the way out to the side and shook his head helplessly. "Dunno! Hey, Thor, you still around?" he asked the ceiling sarcastically.

Natasha ignored the slight and pressed on. "We need to find him. He'll have a better idea of what's going on than any of us."

"He probably went back to Asgard. I suppose S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mastered interplanetary communication already?" Bruce asked, speaking for the first time since she'd entered the room. He was composed but also didn't look particularly happy; he had no fond memories of the way Loki used him to achieve his own ends.

"No...but we should let Fury know about this," she stated.

"So he can do what, exactly?" Tony fired back. "Put us on Defcon 1 and start building another giant death ray? Not his best plan from what I remember."

"We need to be prepared—"

" _Nothing_  will prepare us for whatever Darth Crazy's got going on! He damn sure proved that last time!"

"Then what do you suggest we do, Stark? Stand around and argue until Loki shows up with another army?" Steve demanded, turning his irate gaze onto Tony who immediately picked up the challenge.

"Why don't you tell us? Huh, Desert Storm? You got any bright ideas in that pretty blonde head'a yours?"

" _Boys,_ " Natasha stated, her tone low and dangerous. Both men turned to look at her, affronted that she was interrupting. "If Loki is back from the dead, this is exactly what he wants. He turned us against each other once. You really gonna let him do it again?" she asked. Steve and Tony looked annoyed with her but neither said anything; Steve crossed his arms over his chest again and shifted his weight onto his other foot whereas Tony simply took another drink. "We need to get ourselves together, then we need to report this, and then we need to find Thor. That's our plan," she told them firmly.

"Tasha?" Clint asked, his voice a low rumble at her elbow.

Natasha forced herself not to flinch at the name. "What?" she asked.

Clint pointed across the room, past the bar Tony and Steve were standing in front of, out at the bright, pale blue sky. Something in the distance was coming toward them, a black spot set against the early afternoon sunshine. Silence fell in the room and Natasha shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she turned to face the window, her gaze unwavering as she watched the object take form.

Just a few moments later, Thor landed on the balcony stretching out past the floor-to-ceiling windows. He wore a grave expression, his blonde brows furrowed and the corners of his usually smiling mouth turned down sharply. He strode forward, approaching the glass door and sweeping it aside.

The team greeted him with cold, stunned silence.

Loki smiled at his brother's shoulder.


	4. The Enemy of My Enemy

"What the hell is he doing here?" Tony asked, the first one to break the silence

"Stark—" Thor tried to begin, his voice low and controlled, but Tony wouldn't let him speak.

"Don't Stark me, Hercules, just answer the question!"

Natasha seemed to be the only person in the room successfully keeping her composure. Tony wasn't doing that bad, all things considered, but he was gesturing with his alcohol and his eyes were a little wide. Steve looked about like he was ready to football tackle Loki at any moment. Clint was now standing at Natasha's side, the fingers of one hand twitching toward the gun strapped to his leg, and Bruce was on his feet nearer the back of the room, just in case. Out of everyone in the immediate area, she was the least worried about him losing his cool.

Loki, meanwhile, was positively reveling in the shock his reappearance was causing. Natasha could see it in his smile, in the glimmer behind his bright green eyes as they swept the face of each Avenger in turn. When they connected with hers, however, his brows twitched. It was only a twitch, but it was enough to suggest that he was intrigued by her apparent lack of a reaction. She didn't enjoy that he was noting her above the others for any reason but she held her mask in place all the same, watching impassively as his smile diminished slightly and took on a far more sinister undertone.

"Friends, Loki is in trouble," Thor began, his tone still grave although it was steadily adopting a pleading quality as well. "No one was more shocked than I to discover that he yet lives, and after his crimes I would not bring him to you if his need were not truly dire."

"What happened to that lifelong prison sentence you told us about?" Steve asked, his voice low and his tone bordering on accusatory.

"Technically it was served," Loki offered with a playful grin.

"Hush, brother!" Thor commanded. The grin fell from Loki's face and a shadow seemed to pass over him, but it disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving him looking yet again all too pleased with himself. Natasha noted that Thor didn't seem to be happy with his brother, but didn't interrupt as he continued, "He is hunted, and he needs our protection."

The corner of Loki's mouth twitched at that, and Natasha noted it as well. Apparently he didn't like asking for help.

"No deal," Tony immediately replied, laying a hand flat on the top of the bar. "We return him to sender today. Whatever's after him, he deserves it."

"I told you this was a fool's errand," Loki observed, a hint of bitterness in his haughty voice.

"HUSH!" Thor retorted forcefully. "Your sarcasm does you no favors, Loki."

"I'm sorry, were you under the impression that I wanted a favor?"

"You have no choice. Be grateful, and be quiet."

Loki bristled, but he remained silent, his jaw clenched, hands balled into loose fists at his sides.

"He doesn't want our help. Why are we still talking?" Clint asked, speaking up for the first time. Natasha could practically feel the tension radiating off of him. Part of her wanted to lay a hand on him, get him to relax, but that would have to wait.

"What Loki has done is unforgivable," Thor began, and he actually held up a hand to silence Tony before he began protesting yet again. Apparently the typically polite Asgardian was getting tired of the interruptions. "As I have said, I would not bring him to you were there another path we might consider. The fact remains that he is my brother, and I would not see him lost a third time. I assure you that should you help him, he will fulfill the sentence handed down to him by our father—"

" _Your_  father," Loki corrected sharply.

Thor leveled a hard glare at him before continuing, "—by  _our_  father, and he will never set foot upon Midgard again."

"Just what is it he needs protecting from?" Bruce called from his position some feet away. His arms were crossed over his chest as well, his expression more apprehensive than it was angry.

Thor let out a sigh, his lips pressing together in a firm line. It was clear that he was not looking forward to revealing just why Loki needed them, but he answered honestly, "Loki made a bargain with a being in exchange for the forces he used to invade Midgard. He failed to deliver the Tesseract, so the being is—"

"Coming to collect," Natasha supplied, her husky voice thoughtful. She could see where this was going, having been in similar situations herself, and she didn't like it.

"Yes," Thor nodded, accepting her colloquial phrase.

It was at this point that Bruce took a few steps forward, concern clear in his features as he prodded, "Just what kind of being are we talking about?"

"He is called Thanos, and he is what is known as an Eternal," Thor explained. He was met by a confused silence, so he went on, "He is of an old race of very long-lived creatures. It was he who commanded the Chitauri forces and who desired the Tesseract for himself. He is very strong, very powerful, and his servant, The Other, is searching the Nine Realms for Loki as we speak."

"What will they do when they find him?" Natasha asked in spite of herself. She firmly believed that Loki deserved whatever he got for what he did to her, to Clint, to her team and to their  _planet_ , but she wanted to know what they would be sentencing him to if they did hand him over.

Thor's face darkened, and Loki's expression pinched slightly with something she couldn't put her finger on. "Subject him to a fate far worse than death," the god of thunder answered, effectively creating yet another silence among the team.

Everyone mulled that statement over for several long moments, each appearing to weigh it against their own consciences. Natasha was largely ambivalent about it all. She wanted to see Loki punished, but she didn't necessarily relish the idea of taping a bow on his head and handing him to someone who would slowly carve him limb from limb. At least, that was her mental image based on Thor's expression. A tiny voice in the back of her mind told her that she might not like herself much more if she spoke out in favor of condemning Loki, but it was a small voice that she paid little attention to.

_"_ _You lie and kill, in the service of liars and killers..."_

It was a small voice that she paid no attention to.

She chanced a glance around the room. Bruce looked a bit squeamish at the implication of Thor's statement. Clint still looked furious bordering on eager. Steve looked unsure of himself. Tony, on the other hand, looked like he'd been blown out of the water by everything Thor had said.

"So," he began, gesturing with his alcohol again, "Lady Macbeth here's got an intergalactic loan shark on his tail and you want us to lock him up for safekeeping? Is that what we're taking away from this? Well, I don't buy it. Take him back to Asgard, keep him out of trouble up there."

"He would be killed for his treachery," Thor pointed out.

"No less than he deserves!" Tony countered. "He betrayed us, he betrayed you, he betrayed Thanos—I'm not seeing a reason to stick my neck out for him, especially if the people after him are influential enough to command robot space armies."

"Please, he is my brother—" Thor began again, blatantly entreating them, but Tony cut him off.

"So you've said! I sympathize, I do, but it doesn't change the fact he tried to take over the planet, killed a hell of a lot of people doing it, and is now raining death and destruction on us  _again_  by leading this Thanos dude straight to us."

Silence hung in the air for a brief moment. Thor was beginning to look defeated while Loki seemed to have already resigned himself to the proceedings. Soon, however, Steve spoke up and suggested, "Is there another way to settle this thing? I mean, get Thanos off his back without handing him over until he can be imprisoned safely again?"

"He will take the Tesseract or myself, nothing else," Loki said. Natasha thought she sensed a hint of bitterness in his tone.

"Well, that settles it. I'm not goin' to bat to settle anybody else's debts, let alone his," Tony said with a note of finality.

"He will come for you as well, you know."

Natasha looked around at the sound of Loki's silky voice. It was low and even, not at all pleading or emotional like that of his brother. Something burned behind his emerald eyes, but it was neither resentment nor anger. His words weren't a threat but rather a simple statement of fact. "Why?" she asked quickly, before Tony had an opportunity to mouth off at the suggestion.

Loki turned his gaze upon her, meeting her eyes. His expression didn't change. "You will have information about me, will you not? You are also responsible for the destruction of his most reliable soldiers. That is not an action he is likely to forgive."

Natasha tilted her chin up in the air just slightly as she regarded Loki, her way of conceding that he had a point. She thought she saw something flicker in his gaze, something that hinted at laughter, but it was gone before she could be sure.

"He may be right," Steve said after a moment, shifting uncomfortably where he stood. "If retribution is tied up in this, who's to say he won't come claiming he's looking for Loki and just burn us up on the way out?"

"That's a good point," Bruce offered, looking between Clint and Tony as they seemed to be stubbornly holding onto their anger.

Thor was quick to capitalize on the minimal support he was gaining, however, and immediately suggested, "Help me keep him safe. I cannot risk bringing him to Asgard. Even if the Allfather would spare him, Thanos would surely make war upon us for denying him his revenge. Let him stay, protect him, and we shall stand together against the Mad Titan to show him that Midgard will not bend beneath his threats!"

Another silence settled, although it was brief before Steve moved his gaze around the room. "Well...what does everyone think?" he asked hesitantly.

No one answered right away, but after a couple of moments passed Clint all but growled, "I don't like it."

"Neither do I," said Tony, draining his glass. He set it down on the bar with a loud thunk and stared down at the half-melted ice cubes. Steve was in the process of turning away from him when he grumbled, "Might not be much we can do, though."

All heads turned in Tony's direction, but he kept his back to the room.

"Captain?" Thor inquired, barely containing his hope in his low voice.

Steve hesitated for a long moment, his brows furrowed as he breathed in and then let out a long sigh. "I'm not eager to let your brother off the hook...but if this Thanos is a threat to us either way, he might be able to help us," he said at length, weighing each word carefully as it was clear he wondered if one day he might regret them.

Thor was openly smiling now, having enlisted the majority of the team in his cause. "Lady Natasha?" he asked eagerly, turning his bright blue eyes upon her.

Natasha's nose crinkled slightly at the way he addressed her, but she never had the heart to correct him. She took her time answering as well, measuring her thoughts and carefully moving her words around in her mouth before she said, "You heard the Captain."

"Thank you, my friends!" Thor shouted exuberantly, pumping Mjolnir into the air with his massive ham of a fist.

Natasha paid him no mind, however. Her eyes were trained on Loki's, watching the surprise that flitted through them before he recovered himself. That same grin he'd flashed her, or least that his illusion had flashed her, in her apartment spread over his face, so full of glee and chaos.

She ignored this as well and turned her attention once more to Thor, celebrating all by himself as everyone else was still horribly unsettled by everything that had happened. "I'll put in the call to Fury. If we're gonna babysit him, it'll be somewhere we can keep an eye on him," she said coolly before she turned and drew her phone from her belt, pressing the emergency contact. She came to a stop just in front of the glass doors, her eyes trained across the hallway.

After a solid five minutes of shocked and angry shouting, cursing, crashing, and threatening, Natasha walked back to where her teammates still stood, their sparse conversation falling silent immediately. "A secure facility is being prepared as we speak. Agent Barton and I will escort Loki," she said flatly, speaking predominately to Thor.

"What?" Clint growled, throwing a sharp look at her.

Natasha raised her eyebrows in response, her own expression icy. She didn't appreciate the implication that she had any choice in who dragged their charge around.

"This is reasonable," Thor decided, evidently choosing not to touch the brief exchange between the agents. "Will I be allowed to visit him?"

"That remains to be seen," Natasha told him, knowing that any privileges Loki would or would not be granted were completely at Fury's discretion. Thor still made to argue, however, so she added, "I'll put in a good word."

Thor nodded at this and turned to clap his hand over his brother's shoulder. Loki weathered the touch, but when he turned his eyes to regard Thor, he looked less than grateful for it.

"Let's go," Natasha said after a moment, her body half turned to leave. She wasn't looking forward to being stuck in a car with Loki and Clint and really just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. It was a minor miracle she had kept her composure as thoroughly as she had now that she was face to face with the person who understood her secrets, or at least some of them, and she knew she couldn't keep it up forever.

Clint began making for the door without a word while Loki shrugged out from beneath his brother's hand. He leveled his emerald eyes at Natasha's once more and, allowing another playful smirk to cross his pale face, remarked, "This should be fun."


	5. The Exchange

"Good evening, Agent Romanoff," Loki purred, the corners of his lips curling upward into a wry smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Three days had passed since his initial "confinement," and thus far the only people the Asgardian had come in contact with were the agents tasked with bringing him his meals. Moreover, Fury had made sure to leave him with absolutely nothing to do to entertain himself. The only furnishings he had been accorded consisted of a metal cot with a hard-packed mattress that only just barely accommodated his height and a metal chair that, he assumed, would only be put to use in the event that they required he be restrained. It nearly made him homesick for his cell in Asgard.

Loki's emerald eyes swept over the agent standing on the other side of the glass wall as he rose to his feet, clasping his hands behind his back. This was, by far, the most interesting thing that had happened to him since revealing his presence to Thor; his brother had taken the news rather well, all things considered. Agent Romanoff, however, seemed not to take the news at all. She was still as he sauntered across the small, dark metallic room, not a single muscle or elegant red curl out of place. Her own expression was one of polite, slightly arrogant impassivity, something he found very odd. She was excellent at keeping her composure, that he could not deny her.

Her smile, small as it was, widened only slightly before she smoothly answered, "Simple curiosity."

"Oh, but you are hardly simple," Loki replied. It was evident that she had come to him for something, and her reference to their last private conversation suggested that it was personal.

Natasha still didn't move, even as he came to a stop barely two feet from the glass barrier. "That almost sounded like a compliment," she stated delicately.

"Perhaps it was."

"Perhaps you'd like to tell me how complicated I am."

Loki's angular face split into that chaotic smile. She made it so easy for him to toy with her, and yet somehow it seemed, to him at least, that she made it  _too_  easy. He underestimated her once and didn't intend to do it again. She had to know that she was baiting him, and while normally he might take such an opportunity to turn the tables on her, he had to admit to himself that he was curious to see just where she was leading him.

"For starters, you've been having trouble sleeping," he said easily, noting the slightly purple tinge clinging to the rims of her eyes. "Nightmares, perhaps...but I would wager there is more to it than that. A hardened killer such as yourself is, doubtless, accustomed to listening to the screams of butchered victims. It seems you also have no desire to return to your home tonight. If I have accurately estimated the time, it would seem that Agent Barton expected you hours ago. Then again, you've made it clear that you care little for what he expects of you."

Natasha continued to smile placidly at him. She didn't so much as twitch at any of the suggestions he made, so he continued, "Do you know what I think, Agent Romanoff? I think you've come here not because you were instructed, but because there is nowhere else you would rather be. You have a comfortable home, a loving partner, a list of throats to cut, and yet here you stand...with me. I am curious to know why."

"I'm sure you've already figured it out for yourself," she answered, not so much as a single hairline fracture in her calm demeanor.

Loki grinned again, eagerly following the thread of the conversation. "I know what you are. I have seen what you've done, the red that drips from the pages of your 'ledger.' It is longer than what you've shown Barton, that I know as well," he told her, inching closer to the glass that separated them, his voice lowering in pitch as he went on. "He knows nothing of the true horrors that plague you. You've told him pieces, bedtime stories to soothe his base desire for  _love_ , for intimacy, but it is little more than a cheap facade held in place to prevent him from discovering the truth. From discovering the nature of the creature he crawls into bed with each night. That is why you have come, Agent Romanoff. It is a pretty disguise you wear, but I can see that you tire of it."

Loki was close to the glass now, just a few inches away, and one of his palms was pressed up flat against it. There was a wicked gleam in his eye, a dangerous flame flickering in the depths of his emerald orbs that was simply pining for the emotion he so desired to pull from her. He hated the way she played him that day in the helicarrier, but seeing tears swimming in her pale green eyes had made his own mistakes more than worth it.

Natasha, however, remained unmoved. She stood across from the god, her simple smile adopting a hint of superiority as she gazed back at him. "You really think I'm pretty?" she asked, her husky voice light and velvety.

The cruel smirk dropped away from Loki's face at her comment, at the way she disregarded nearly everything he said to her. He was excellent at goading people, at getting under their skin, and he had proven once that she was no exception. Why was she suddenly immune to his taunts? Why was she staring at him as though she was picking up on something he wasn't? Why hadn't his words affected her at least a little bit?

He watched on in mute confusion as the agent turned on her heel and walked easily away from him, down the corridor and around the corner out of sight. The corners of his mouth twitched and his brows furrowed in agitation as he pushed himself away from the glass, turning to stare around at his meager cell, hands balled into fists at his sides. This was the second time that she had pulled a stunt like this on him, and the worst part was that this time he didn't understand why she'd done it. He gave her no information she could report to Fury, no information that could have possibly satisfied whatever sick curiosity she brought to him. So why did she look like she beat him at some unspoken game?

* * *

Loki lay back on his cot, his eyes staring up at the grey ceiling although he didn't see it. It had been two days since Agent Romanoff's visit, and still he turned her phrases over and over in his mind, struggling to understand why she looked so smug as she walked away from him. It infuriated him, this feeling of not knowing something, of being outwitted when he couldn't even grasp  _how_  she outwitted him. He longed for her to return, he did, so that he could have another opportunity to steal the upper hand from her or at least figure out exactly which game she was attempting to play.

"Good evening, Loki."

Her voice curled through his ears like a strand of red silk ribbon, that chaotic smile stretching over his lips once more as he immediately sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot in one smooth motion. "Agent," he purred in response, his eyes alighting on the metal tray held lightly between her gloved hands. Loki's eyebrows lofted slightly as his eyes moved back up to hers. "I would have thought delivering a prisoner his meals beneath you."

"I think we both know you're hardly a prisoner," she replied easily, making no move toward the metal door through which his food was usually passed.

"Whatever do you mean?"

Natasha gave him a knowing smirk, prompting the corners of his lips to curl upward a little further. "This cell isn't nearly as well-designed or reinforced as the last one of ours you escaped. It's no secret you're only here because you want to be."

"Do you wonder why?"

"I know why."

"And what is your guess, Agent Romanoff?"

"You're afraid."

Loki's own smirk faltered for the blink of an eye before he recovered himself. "And what have I to fear from you?" he asked, his tone vaguely patronizing.

Natasha didn't answer immediately. She tilted her head to the side slightly, her smirk firmly in place as she nonchalantly replied, "Nothing, from me." Another moment passed, and when she continued her tone was still light but more serious than it had been so far. "What's your game, coming here? You really don't think that even if we protect you from Thanos that anybody will just let you go afterward?"

"Where have I to go?" Loki returned, his smirk widening. "The Allfather would have my head if I returned to Asgard, and I cannot stay here. Well, I could, although I am sure Fury would have several...pleasant ideas as to just how I would be treated."

"You're not wrong," Natasha smiled. "He's not exactly sweet on you after what you tried to do."

"And I suppose that you, his most experienced agent, would have the honor of wielding the knife?"

"Would you like that?"

A grin stretched across Loki's face, tinged with something like genuine amusement. "I think I might," he admitted. He didn't much care whether she took him seriously or not.

"Then I'll be sure to pass up the opportunity," Natasha said, that certain air of smugness returning to her expression.

This time, Loki didn't much mind. "Still so cold, Agent Romanoff," he teased before he added, "And to whom would you pass the blade? Your lovely Agent Barton? I am sure he would not refuse a turn at me."

"No, he wouldn't. He's got quite the bone to pick with you."

"So I saw. I was positive that he would at least attempt to shoot me on the journey to this place."

"You're welcome, by the way," Natasha said, catching Loki slightly off guard.

"For what?" he asked, smirk still in place, one eyebrow cocked slightly.

"For not letting him."

Loki outright laughed at this, finding that he was enjoying their game of cat and mouse. He still wasn't positive as to the reason why Natasha was dragging the conversation out this way when she still held his supper in her hands, but he saw nothing wrong with having a bit of fun while he could. After all, he had nothing else to do. "Such kindness, little spider," he purred, rising to his feet and beginning to stride across the cell. "Could it be that you are the one who is 'sweet' on me?"

"Would that you were so lucky," Natasha smiled in return.

"Oh, perhaps I am," Loki continued to tease her, stopping close to the glass, hands clasped behind his back. "Nobody else has delayed my meals for the purpose of idle chatter, and I can assure you that you stand nothing to gain by carrying on. If there is another explanation for your visit, I would hear it."

"Well," Natasha began, shifting her weight onto her other foot, "anything you could tell us about Thanos would do us a big favor."

"Ah, there it is," Loki smiled, the pieces falling into place for him. "Thor could not tell you what you need to know, and so you come to me. Test me, soften me up with coy flirtations, and then perhaps I would tell you what you want to know. If not, what then? Will you continue to withhold my supper?"

The corner of Natasha's mouth pulled upward into a wry smirk as she began to move over to the door. "I'm sorry you mistook that for flirting," she said, the hint of a chuckle hovering around the edges of her words as she disappeared beyond the scope of the glass. Loki's expression twitched in irritation.

A moment later the slot in the door dropped open and the tray slid onto the metal panel. Natasha left it and moved in front of the glass to stand before Loki once more, the smirk that he had so recently begun to hate again playing over her lips. "In case you forgot, that favor you mentioned is as much for you as it is for us. I'd be willing to bet that if we gave you up he might consider letting his lost soldiers go."

Loki's expression faltered once more, a flash of mingled fury and fear flitting across his features and disappearing. "You have no idea what he will do when he comes here," he reminded her, his voice low and a little threatening.

"No, but you do," she said evenly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Thor would never allow it."

"You're that confident he'd save you over the whole of humanity?"

Loki's lips pressed together in a hard line. No, no he wasn't that confident. Thor had never loved him, not really. It was guilt that bound his brother to him now, and of that he had no illusions.

"Now would be a good time to start talking," Natasha pressed gently, her chin lofting in the air expectantly.

Loki had a brief vision of his hands wrapping around her exposed, slender neck. "Nothing I tell you will change anything. You aren't prepared to deal with him," he told her, just managing to keep his tone in check and his voice from trembling.

Natasha watched him for several long seconds, and for the first time in his life, Loki found himself uncomfortable beneath someone else's gaze. Her calm never broke, not once, even in the face of a threat she stood no chance of defeating. It puzzled Loki, but what was more, it unnerved him. At length, the corners of her mouth curved upward into another small, impassive smile. "Eat your dinner. It's getting cold," she told him simply before she turned and left him alone in his dimly lit, underground prison.


	6. A Gift

"You're going back there again?"

Natasha rolled her eyes profoundly, thankful that her back was to Clint as she pressed the button to call the elevator. She'd been visiting Loki regularly, every couple of days for the past two weeks, and she really felt like she was gaining some ground with him. Of course, her partner really didn't like it, at all. She understood why Clint would be upset about her going out of her way to regularly meet with the person who had essentially mind-controlled him into killing plenty of good agents that he used to work with, but frankly she was getting to the point where she really wanted him to fuck off about it. Fury had already given her orders.

_"You turned the tables on him last time when we needed you to. If anyone can figure out what he's up to or what we're dealing with, it'll be you."_

Clint didn't need to know that sometimes she visited Loki more for herself than for Fury, or that tonight was one of those nights.

"I don't like it, Nat. He's got something up his sleeve and getting to you—" Clint started again, but she cut him off.

"Will give me a better idea of what he's planning. Seriously, I know what I'm doing," she assured him, doing her best to keep the irritation out of her voice. She'd already shouted at him about this once, she didn't feel like doing it again at work.

Still, Clint wasn't deterred. "At least tell me what you've been talking about," he said, clearly frustrated.

The elevator doors slid open silently ahead of her, and Natasha stepped inside. "Base level two," she stated firmly.

A cool, automated female voice asked, "Identification?"

"Shadow. Romanoff, Natasha A," she replied and then directed her eyes to Clint once more. "You don't have the clearance," she told him flatly as the doors closed over his angry, disappointed expression.

She would pay for that comment later, but her thoughts were already directed underground, to the upcoming conversation with the god allowing himself to be caged.

When the elevator doors slid open once more, she walked out into the narrow, dark hallway and made for the light that shone at the very end. The corridor was lined with thick, reinforced steel doors concealing interrogation rooms, but the glass-fronted cell Loki was being housed in was a new addition. The glass was the same type that was used in the manufacturing of the cage engineered to contain the Hulk on the helicarrier, added to the room so that everything Loki did could be observed from the outside as well as by the cameras positioned in the high corners. Unfortunately they had no technology to nullify magic, but as Natasha understood it Thor had commissioned something on Asgard to help with that. It was only a matter of time before it was finished.

She walked up to the center of the thick pane of glass, hands behind her back, one closed over her slender wrist, and said, "Good evening, Loki."

"Agent," he replied, rising to his feet. They played this game each time she came to visit him. As he approached her, he asked, "Have you nothing better to do than keep me company night after night?"

"Well, tonight I brought you something to help relieve the boredom, but I can leave if you're getting tired of me," she answered easily, giving a shrug of her slight shoulders.

An intrigued smile played over Loki's lips and his eyebrows lofted. "In that case, do stay. I wasn't aware that it was customary in this realm to offer gifts to one's prisoners."

"You're not a prisoner, remember?" Natasha remarked slyly, lifting her chin a hair.

Loki's smile curled further upward as he purred, "So you continue to needlessly remind me. If I am no prisoner, what do you consider me?"

Natasha tilted her head to the side and regarded Loki for a few moments, actually needing to make up her mind on that particular point. At length, she delicately answered, "An unwanted house guest."

"That was a bit rude."

"You're a bit rude."

"Am I?"

"Alien war."

"Point taken."

"I thought so," Natasha said with a small smile. It wasn't uncommon for them to have conversations like this anymore, almost like they were getting along with one another.

"Your gift?" Loki prodded, raising his eyebrows once more. He looked awfully expectant to Natasha, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was the boredom prompting him to be so curious about what she'd brought for him or if it was his greedy nature.

"Someone's excited," Natasha remarked, half chuckling when a flash of irritation darted across Loki's face. She didn't pause to let him get a word in, however, and instead pressed on, "Trade me for it."

"Are you familiar with gift giving, Agent Romanoff?" Loki asked, his eyes narrowing somewhat shrewdly.

Natasha simply smiled in response. "Answer one question and you'll get your present."

Loki seemed to consider this for a moment, but he ultimately let the corner of his mouth drift upward and nodded, "Go on."

"Last year—why did you use the Chitauri?"

Natasha watched as Loki's expression became somewhat withdrawn. The emotion, or at least the clever grin, dropped out of his face and he regarded her almost coldly. Evidently he'd been hoping for a question that he could have talked his way around, not one so direct as the one she'd chosen. Nevertheless, after a moment passed he carefully countered, "Does it not follow that conquering a planet may require an army?"

"Well, I've been thinking about it," Natasha continued easily, "and no, it really doesn't. Thor is the warrior. You use tricks, illusions. You escaped S.H.I.E.L.D with the Tesseract and kept it out of our reach. After that, you could have easily snuck back in, impersonated Fury, people higher up than Fury, and taken us down. You could have ruled Earth without shedding a single drop of blood if you wanted to."

"Perhaps I didn't want to," he said, but Natasha didn't believe it. Somehow the words lacked conviction. She was silent, however, as he went on, "The Chitauri were a condition of the bargain. A fail safe, if you will."

Natasha nodded at the admission. It confirmed what her thoughts on the matter had been for the past few days, although it complicated more problems than it solved. Nevertheless, she allowed another smile to cross her face as she told him, "That wasn't so hard, I think." She moved over to the door and released the latch on the slot before setting the book down just inside it and returning to her former position, her arms crossed over her chest.

She watched as Loki went immediately to the door to retrieve the object, his hands shooting out for it and then hesitating just before he picked it up. Slowly his fingers closed around the volume, carefully lifting it and turning it over, inspecting the maroon and cream paperback cover. He ran his fingertips along the spine, over the title and then across the lines of the summary on the back, his expression largely inscrutable. His eyes never left the book as he made his way back over to his own position across from her, and when he stopped, he stated, "A book."

Natasha's brows lofted. "Don't like reading?" she asked, finding it doubtful. He handled the thing gently, as though he were worried it might be taken away from him, and something in his tone hinted at surprise.

"I do," he said softly, slightly defensive. A few moments passed as he finished reading the summary, at which pointed he turned narrowed, curious eyes on her. "What makes you believe I will enjoy this?"

"I don't care if you enjoy it," Natasha said frankly. "Read it or don't. I just thought you might like a distraction."

"How considerate of you," Loki remarked. Natasha had difficulty deciding whether or not the words were genuine, but she tried not to let it bother her as she shrugged by way of a response. The god regarded her for another long moment before he added, "I suppose we shall see whether Midgardian literature is of any value."

"I suppose we will. Goodnight, Loki," Natasha answered, the corner of her lips pulling upward again briefly before she turned and walked away. Loki mumbled something behind her back but she couldn't hear what it was; he didn't usually answer her when she turned to leave for the evening so she was almost tempted to look back at him, but she made herself walk on.

The game they were playing was too delicate for her to give him the impression that her curiosity about him was growing. She had been far too careful all this time about not reacting to him, about making it completely clear that he had no affect on her to reveal now that he did affect her, only not in the way he wanted to. As the elevator doors whispered shut in front of her and began to pull her up to the ground level of the complex, her eyes watched Loki turn his gift over between his hands in the silvery walls. He looked so apprehensive, defensive even, as though by giving him the book she were trying to trick him somehow. It was true that the gift was a bit of a play on her part, an attempt to get under his skin just like everything she'd said to him so far, but for some reason the care he took when examining it and the distrustful way he'd regarded her stuck in her mind.


	7. On the Outside

Clint planted his hands on his knees, preparing to stand up when Tony's voice called out, "Hey, wait a minute! You squeeze anything outta Starscream yet?"

A sigh passed through the archer's lips as he relaxed back into the couch once more, his grey eyes swinging over to the other side of the room. Natasha turned back to face them, having already been making for the door, and turned her attention to Tony. Clint was used to being a little off her radar by now, not that he enjoyed it. "Nothing useful. I'm getting there," she told them. "I think he's starting to come around."

"Lady Natasha," Thor said, taking a couple of steps forward from his position beside Steve, "might I visit my brother? I am sure I could aid you in getting through to him."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Natasha said, firmly but not unkindly. "Fury hasn't authorized visitation yet. Maybe once I break him down a little more. I'll let you know."

"What exactly are you doing to-" Thor started, but Natasha cut him off with a sharp look.

"Nothing like that. We just talk," she reassured him, and the Asgardian's face immediately flooded with relief. She glanced at the clock on the wall and narrowed her eyes before adding, "I should get going."

"Nat!" Clint called to her, getting swiftly to his feet. Natasha froze where she stood, her back still to him, as he crossed the room to her. "C'mon, don't go tonight. My next assignment starts tomorrow...I was hoping we could spend some time together," he said quietly once he'd reached her, carefully bringing his hand up to brush his fingers along her upper arm.

She turned her head to the side, not enough to look at him but enough to speak to him; he had half a mind to grab her and turn her all the way to face him, but he restrained himself. "I can't. I'm starting to get through to him. I can't stop now," she said, her voice low but firm.

"Natasha," Clint exhaled, a bit more sharply than he'd like.  _That_  made her turn to face him, but his frustration had been mounting for...months at this point. It needed to come out, and the challenging expression on her face was just enough to start pushing him toward that threshold. "What difference is it gonna make if you go tomorrow instead? I'm only asking you for one night," he said, miraculously keeping his voice level.

"All the difference," Natasha answered him, and he could tell from the determination in her voice that he couldn't win this battle, not that he could ever win with her unless she let him. "If I wait too long, then he'll—"

"What? What is he gonna do without you while he's rotting in that  _goddamn cage_?" Clint said tensely, the words half growled as he tried to keep his voice low enough to avoid being overheard by the rest of the team.

Natasha bristled at his reaction, and he nearly thew his hands up in the air and walked away from her right there. She narrowed her eyes at him and coldly asked, "Are you sure you want to talk about this right now?"

"Yes! Alright, yes, I am sure I want to fuckin' talk about this right now!" he erupted suddenly, flat out unable to contain himself anymore. "Every time you say we'll talk about something later, guess what?  _We never do!_  Stop running away from me, Natasha, and tell me what the hell is going on for once. That is all I have  _ever_  asked of you."

Natasha rounded on him, her green eyes full of ice. "What's going on is  _you_  getting in the way of  _my_  mission. I don't have time for this."

"What else is new?" Clint half laughed. "What's gotten into you, Nat? What is he doing to you to make you act like this?"

"Act like what?" she asked coldly.

"Like you're not even human anymore!" he shot back, but the way her hardened expression faltered slightly made him regret the words immediately. "Nat, I didn't—"

"I'll see you when you get back," Natasha said gruffly, turning and throwing the glass door open before she stalked down the hall to the elevator.

Clint felt his stomach drop as a tangible silence settled over the room. That definitely hadn't gone the way he'd wanted it to, although he supposed he should have stopped expecting something different a long time ago.

Someone cleared their throat, reminding him that he and Natasha hadn't been alone in the room. "I, uh, I think I should go," Bruce said a bit awkwardly. Clint didn't turn around yet, but the other man clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder as he passed. Bruce was good that way; he didn't pry into other people's business when it didn't concern him.

"My lady expects me," Thor announced, softly, and soon the sound of his heavy footfalls reverberated through the room as he approached Clint as well. "I am sorry, my friend," he offered, his hand falling briefly onto Clint's shoulder before he turned and left for the balcony.

"Well, I'm stayin'," Tony remarked, and barely a moment went by before the clinking of bottles filled the silence. "C'mon Legolas, get a drink," he called.

Clint let out a long sigh and brought a hand up to rub his forehead. A couple moments passed before he could bring himself to turn around and head over to the bar, falling into a seat beside Steve as Tony shook some ice into a couple glasses. "I'm sorry, guys...I don't..." he started, but he trailed off in a vague gesture. He was barely sure what had just happened, only that it hadn't been what he'd intended at all.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Steve reassured him. "Everybody fights sometimes. It's natural."

"That wasn't a fight, that was Cupid takin' one of his arrows and shovin' it up your ass," Tony pointed out, setting down the glass of amber liquid in front of Clint. "Sorry, but I'm right," he added with a shrug.

Steve shot him a disapproving look and turned to the downtrodden man instead. "What was that about?" he asked, and Clint winced a little at the fact the Captain had picked up on the subtext of the conversation.

He shook his head and took a pull from his drink. "I dunno, she...We've had problems lately," he said a bit lamely, unsure he even wanted to talk about this let alone know how to start it all off.

"No shit," Tony said flatly. "C'mon. Be a man and own up to your feelings."

Clint groaned audibly at the suggestion and gave Tony a look that clearly asked whether he was serious. The billionaire stared him down, however, and eventually he dropped his gaze back down to his glass. "I really don't know," he started, his defeat beginning to creep into his tone. "She's been different...distant, really, since the big battle. Won't talk like she used to, avoids me sometimes. I catch her staring out the window for minutes at a time, remembering stuff she won't tell me about. And now this... _Loki_  business, it's just getting worse. It's like she's...obsessed or something. She talks to the guy almost every other night even though she's not getting anything out of him, on the nights she  _doesn't_  talk to him she still comes home late even though I know she's got nothin' to do...I think he's getting to her somehow but she won't say a word of what he tells her down there."

Silence fell again for a few moments until Steve hesitantly suggested, "Well...has it occurred to you that maybe, and tell me if I'm outta line with this...maybe something happened between them when she went to figure out Loki's plan and she's, I don't know, maybe trying to put that to rest?"

"Oh, come on," Tony said, rolling his eyes. "You really think Henry VIII over there got to Romanoff? That woman's the closest thing to a Terminator we're ever gonna get. She's incorruptible."

"No, she's not. She told me she was compromised, but..." Clint trailed off again, taking another drink. "I just thought...I mean, she seemed fine soon as the fighting started, and I was so fucked up..."

"She's a master actress, buddy. Fact you know something's wrong to begin with is enough to tell she's slipping," Tony told him, although this time he sounded almost pensive rather than flippant.

Clint let out a hard sigh as he continued to stare into his drink, the tumbler held between both of his hands. "I just don't know what to do with her anymore," he said, hating to admit it although it was the truth. Natasha had squirmed so far away from him now that he felt like he was only barely hanging onto her. At any moment she could slip through his fingers and he probably wouldn't even notice until it was too late. He just had no idea who she was anymore; sometimes, with the way she acted, he was afraid he never really knew to begin with.

Another couple of moments passed in silence, Tony having evidently decided he had no good advice at this point, or maybe just no more obnoxious, unhelpful quips. Steve, at least, suggested, "Just give her some space. Let her try to figure whatever she's going through out on her own. Natasha's strong. If she needs you, you'll know."

Clint nodded at that, but he couldn't help but feel deep down that he  _wouldn't_  ever know. Natasha wasn't the type of woman who depended on other people and he'd never taken her for that, but with all she'd seen, all she'd done, he knew that she struggled. He wanted to help her, he just couldn't do that when he didn't understand what the problem was.


	8. Self Portrait

Natasha's hands gripped the metal bar of the elevator so hard that the blood drained from her gloved knuckles.  _Who does he think he is?_  she thought bitterly, her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched as she stared at her own distorted reflection. She was getting fed up with Clint, and the shit he had just pulled on her in front of the team had all but pushed her over the edge. There was no denying the fact that she had been distant from him for a long time now, lately more than ever, but she had her reasons for it, reasons she didn't think Clint needed to know.

Some of them,  _she_  didn't know.

At least when she was with Loki, trying to pry him apart piece by piece to get at what was underneath all that armor, she knew what she was doing. She had a goal, an objective. She could focus on him, and what he did made more and more sense to her. With Clint, it was exactly the opposite. She was on eggshells with him, constantly afraid that anything she said, anything she did was going to spark something. The worst part was that she wasn't afraid of fighting with him. She was afraid that he wouldn't want to fight. She was terrified of having the conversation she'd so narrowly avoided in Stark Tower, of having to own up to the fact that he loved her and wanted to be with her when she didn't,  _couldn't_  reciprocate those feelings, or at least pretend to anymore.

The simple truth was that she owed him a debt, and she'd given him four years of happy memories to repay it. After the last nine months...the last few weeks...what he said to her in the tower...she was beginning to wonder if maybe it was time to let him go.

She was beginning to wonder if maybe he was right, if maybe she  _wasn't_  human anymore.

The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, and Natasha stepped out into the familiar, dark corridor. She'd been thinking about this visit ever since she'd given Loki that book three days ago, and admittedly she was eager to know what he thought of it. It had been a strategic choice on her part, a very bold one, and after the way he had reacted to the gift she knew that it would either go very well or very poorly. Then again, as it was Loki they were talking about, it could easily be a little bit of both.

Drawing level with the glass front of his cell, she composed herself and ritualistically began, "Good eveni—"

A loud, solid thud reverberated through the corridor, cutting Natasha off in mid-sentence. Loki, rising to his feet across the cell, had whipped the paperback at her with such force that the glass folded over the cover and the first several pages.

"I take it you didn't like it?" she asked, her eyebrows lofting slightly as she regarded him.

"Like it," the god spat as he came closer, stopping just a few inches away from the glass, his hands balled into fists. "I suppose you thought I would identify with it. See myself within the loathsome Dorian Gray. Was that your plan,  _Agent_? Pass me this piece of drivel in hopes that it might impose upon me the error of my ways and make me further inclined to help you?"

"A girl can dream," Natasha replied coolly.

Loki's lips curled upward into a cruel grin. "Oh, and you do dream, do you not? I saw far more of you in dear Dorian's portrait than I did myself," he said, his low voice carrying a lethal undercurrent.

Natasha steeled her nerves briefly before she asked, "How's that?"

A threatening chuckle escaped Loki; he had clearly been hoping she would ask that very same question. "So young, so beautiful...Skin the color of freshly fallen snow, hair as bright and wild as the kindled flames keeping you warm at night. What was it Barton told me you did before you became the Black Widow?" Loki mused, his bright emerald eyes burning into hers. "You were a dancer, were you not? A ballerina?"

Natasha's jaw clenched.

"Yes, that was it...You danced for the Bolshoi, and you were  _lovely_...Your dear father watched every performance, pride spilling from his watery eyes as he watched his little girl...his little Natasha...turn on tiptoe to ringing applause."

Loki's eyes widened slightly, his gaze intensifying. Natasha fought the urge to shrink back from him. She didn't remember telling Clint the kind version of her childhood in so much detail.

"Now look at you," the god growled, his voice filling with disgust. "You've exchanged your slippers for daggers, your precious pirouettes for the ability to crush life with your bare hands. You think that I am the ugly one? Perhaps you should examine your own portrait,  _Natalia_. You say you want to wipe out the red...Peel away the pretty painted woman and your canvas is  _dripping_  with it. It is inside you, Little Natalia, infecting you. The blood of your victims courses through your decrepit veins. It sustains you. It is what keeps you alive, even now as you make your pathetic attempts to redeem yourself. You really think they will matter? You think they will transform you back into the beautiful little dancer you once were?"

Natasha felt her shoulders begin to shake. Her own eyes were burning, lined with tears just begging to spill over her cheeks, and her fingertips were digging into her arms.

Loki relished the sight and pressed on loudly, relentlessly, "You will  _never_  be anything but the creature you have become. This game you play with S.H.I.E.L.D, with Barton and the rest of the  _Avengers..._ you may fool them, but I see you for what you are. I see what you have done, the atrocities that have twisted your soul. Trust me, Natalia, the only redemption you will find is among the dead left in your wake."

The world's deadliest assassin trembled like a leaf in the wind beneath the heated, angry gaze of the god, and although she hated herself for allowing it, a couple fat tears slid over the rims of her eyes and over her colorless cheeks. Her lips were pressed together in a hard line and her hands balled into fists beneath her arms. Every muscle in her neck and shoulders tensed, and her feet practically screamed at her to turn and run away. Nobody,  _nobody_  was able to see through her the way that Loki did, and yet...

Natasha didn't allow herself to run away, nor did she break Loki's gaze. A few moments passed in tense silence, and then, her voice soft but somehow steady, she said, "An astute analysis...for someone who doesn't identify with Dorian."

Loki's eyebrows slammed into one another as he stared at her in unveiled shock and anger. "What?" he demanded, uncomprehending.

Natasha pulled in a breath to steady herself a little further before she took a few steps forward, closing even more of the distance between the two of them. Now all that separated them was about six inches and a thick pane of reinforced glass. "Cut the crap, Loki," she started, her voice still soft and firm. "You're not as hard to read as you think you are. I'm not the only one in this room who's done terrible things, and I'm not the only one with regrets. The difference between you and me is that I'm willing to admit I have them."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Loki growled at her, although yet again she felt as though the words lacked conviction.

"The hell I don't," she replied quickly, her tone never changing. "What was it you did when Daddy told you that you were adopted? When you found out that underneath all your fancy armo—"

"HOLD YOUR TONGUE!" Loki shouted, his voice at once a command and a plea as he slammed his open palm against the glass wall with such force that cracks spidered out from his hand.

"Under that armor you are a  _monster_!" Natasha answered him, her voice just as loud, the words ripping forward from her slender throat. She slapped her hand against the glass as well, right against Loki's, the cracks scratching her skin. "A fallen prince, an unloved child whining that big brother gets all the attention! Thor told us all your secrets after the battle,  _Laufeyson_! You want to be his equal—you could  _never_  stand beside Thor! He stands tall while you slither on your belly like the snake you are, biting his ankles to bring him down alongside you. You think that ruling a world will put you above him? Take it! Take Earth, Asgard, Jotunheim—take them all! There is no crown large enough to cover up what you are!"

Natasha 's chest pressed against the glass, her threatening snarl barely an inch away from the clear surface. Delicate cracks continued to creep outward from between she and Loki's palms, so forcefully were they both pressing against the pane. Her heavy breath created a fog, momentarily obscuring the lower portion of her face.

Loki's expression was thunderous. At any moment she expected him to slam his fist into the glass and break it entirely, to step through the shattered wall and kill her with his bare hands. Still she stared him down, didn't so much as blink, didn't twitch a single tense muscle. Several moments passed in this way, and then before her very eyes he began to crumble. The flame behind his burning emerald eyes began to die, and his lips, pulled back over his own snarl, began to tremble. He fought to hold Natasha's gaze for several more long seconds, his fingertips pressing hard enough into the glass to create their own individual indents, until she watched as he let out a harsh growl and shoved himself away. He turned his back on her, his shoulders hunched, hands balled into fists at his sides.

Only then did Natasha relent, dropping her own hand to her side and taking a step away from the glass. She gave him his moment of silence, using it to collect herself once again and to take a few deep breaths before she addressed him. "I see you, too, Loki. You're just as ugly as I am. Never forget that," she said, her low voice soft and firm once more. She glared into his back for a moment longer before she turned, her quiet footsteps little more than a whisper in the silent corridor.


	9. Speechless

Natasha walked the length of the familiar, dim corridor, her head held high and an impassive expression occupying her soft, delicate features. Only two days had passed since she and Loki's shouting match. As she sat on the roof of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters that night, her booted feet dangling over the edge, she'd told herself that she wouldn't go back, at least not for a while. That argument had been too intense. Each of them had let just a little too much of themselves show through the cracks in the glass barrier. It had been unprofessional of her to let him get to her that way. Inappropriate. Dangerous. Compromising.

And yet here she was, walking headfirst into exactly the same situation, drawn by some inexplicable, unstoppable force to the one person who made her feel as though she were _made_ of glass.

She entered the ring of soft, white light emitted by the bright, ever burning fluorescent ceiling lamps of Loki's cell, but she didn't stop walking. Her pace was neither hurried nor uneven as she crossed through the shadow he cast in the hall, standing as he was near the center of the glass barrier; evidently he'd been waiting for her. Her gaze remained straight ahead, however, paying him no mind as she approached the door to the cell. She stood in front of it and pressed her hand to the identification scanner set into the wall beside it, waiting until it turned green and gave a faint beep.

Natasha hesitated for a brief moment as her fingertips grazed the handle of the door, and then she pushed it inward and stepped inside.

The door swung shut of its own accord behind her, a slight hiss echoing through the small room as she was sealed in. Loki, who had turned his head to watch her in unveiled astonishment, turned his body to face her as well. Slowly, that familiar chaotic smile stretched over his mouth. “Good evening, Agent Romanoff,” he all but whispered into the distance between them.

Natasha's expression remained impassive although she could hear her heart thundering in her chest; briefly she wondered if maybe he could hear it, too. Her eyes remained glued to his as she began to carefully step further into the cell, and it was only when she drew level alongside Loki that she looked away. She turned her back on him and moved over to the single metal chair in the room, grasped it by the top of its back and then set it down with a ringing clatter across from his cot. Wordlessly, she seated herself.

A couple of moments passed in silence. Loki's careful footsteps clicked across the floor as he moved over to her. He lowered himself onto the cot across from her, his expression just as unchanged as hers. Their eyes locked, and before she could push the disturbing thought away, Natasha almost imagined that he was seeing through her again.

“I see they replaced the glass,” she observed nonchalantly.

“Oh, yes,” Loki agreed. “They also confiscated your book.”

“ _Your_ book,” Natasha corrected quickly. “I can bring you another one, if you want.”

Something in Loki's eyes flashed and they narrowed for just a fraction of a second. “Can you?” he asked delicately. “Could it be that you are finally warming up to me, Agent?”

“Could be,” Natasha shrugged.

Loki's smile widened just a little as he regarded her, his gaze searching for something. Whatever he was looking for, she would be sure he didn't find it; her nerves felt like live wires, but her exterior was cool, collected.

At length his eyes narrowed just slightly and he leaned forward, his forearms resting across his thighs. “Why have you come here?” he asked, his voice yet again little more than a whisper.

“I need you to answer a few questions,” she replied calmly.

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because I'll answer yours.”

Loki's eyebrows lofted at her reply, genuine surprise coloring his angular features. Natasha knew that she had thrown him a curve ball. This was a bad idea, a terrible, awful, stupid, reckless idea, but she knew that the only way to get Loki to cooperate would be to give him something he wanted in return. That was how he'd gotten himself into this mess, after all. Bargains.

A long second passed wherein he seemed to study her, to decide if the risks outweighed the rewards. At length, his smile returned and he nodded, “I like this game.”

“Good.” Natasha allowed a small smile to cross her own lips as she asked, “If we give you to Thanos, what will he do to you?”

Loki's expression darkened immediately. For a moment Natasha wondered if he was going to reach out and hit her, but he settled on a cold, contemptuous glare. “He will spend an eternity inflicting upon me tortures so cruel that none on this earth, even you, could possibly imagine them,” he said quietly.

Natasha nodded but said nothing, so he asked, “I suppose it is my turn to ask you a question?”

“Is that your question?” she returned dispassionately.

Loki's eyes narrowed dangerously, and not a moment more passed before he said softly, “Tell me about last night's dream.”

Natasha's chin elevated a fraction of an inch and her brows furrowed only slightly. She didn't know how Loki was able to tell that she'd had any dreams the night before let alone another of her nightmares, but then again, she supposed it didn't matter. Her face lowered once more and her expression relaxed again as the surprise passed and she resigned herself to her answer. Carefully, she told him, “I dreamed that I was performing _Swan Lake_ at the Bolshoi Theater. The rest of the dancers were corpses, and the audience members were burning alive in their seats.”

Loki offered her a cruel smirk. “How poetic.”

“How do we stop Thanos?” Natasha asked, a determined edge to her expression although her face continued to remain largely blank.

“I have no idea. To my knowledge, he has no weaknesses,” Loki shrugged simply. Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly, and he went on, “How fares the Hawk?”

“I don't know,” she answered honestly, although this response seemed only to please Loki all the more. Nevertheless, she asked, “How long until they find you?”

“That depends on when they decide to investigate Midgard, does it not? I have no way of knowing.” Loki smiled, and then softly inquired, “Did you ever love him, Agent Romanoff?”

Natasha's eyes narrowed. “No,” she answered just as softly. “Did you ever love Odin?”

The grin dropped away from Loki's face, and again he looked as though he were ready to reach across the gap between them and strangle her. “Before I knew better,” he nearly snarled. “How many names have you written in your ledger?”

“I lost count,” Natasha replied, her voice cold. “How many nights have you gone without sleep?”

She didn't know when the two of them had become so close. They were both leaning forward, their knees nearly touching. When Loki spoke, his cool breath brushed Natasha's cheeks.

“Three. How many of those names belonged to children?”

“Seventeen. Why don't you tell me about your dreams, Loki?”

“Because they are not yours. What makes you believe you stand any chance of defeating Thanos?”

“Nothing, but I'm sure as hell not running away. What makes you believe you deserve my protection?”

Loki opened his mouth to answer, but the words seemed to die in his throat. His brows furrowed, in surprise and confusion rather than anger, and he stared at Natasha as though she had slapped him. Just as her own expression began to reflect some of the curiosity she was feeling, he launched himself to his feet and stalked over to the side of the room. His back was to her, and his reflection was distorted by the dull metal wall.

Natasha didn't know whether she should speak, so she held her tongue.

After several long moments, Loki breathed, “Get out.”

It never occurred to her to disobey. Natasha rose to her feet and crossed to the door. Her fingers entered the eight-digit exit code into the keypad beside the portal and it opened with another slight hiss. She slipped out, let it close behind her, and then walked swiftly back to the elevator.

Only when that set of doors closed behind her did she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Natasha took the elevator up to the top floor of the building, and from there she took the stairs out onto the roof. Without stopping she half-ran to the edge, finally standing still just inside the low wall that surrounded the place. Her lungs filled with the warm, July night air and her eyes slipped closed, blocking out the world for just a few moments. When she opened them again, she was surrounded by the familiar panoramic view of Manhattan as well as what few stars shone strongly enough to blink in the light-polluted haze hanging over her head.

With a sigh, she climbed onto the two foot high wall and sat down, her legs dangling in the empty air. Her hands gripped the stone ledge and her head hung, her chin nearly resting on her chest as she stared down at the distant streets.

 _That was a mistake,_ she thought to herself, but she didn't really believe it.

In the end, Loki hadn't given her much information, or any information at all, that she could work with. That should have been the end of her concern. She'd gone down there to make a trade, to pull useful information about Thanos and what they could expect from him. That had been the goal, the objective. Any personal information she gave away was considered collateral damage. Any personal information she received was considered strategic insight into how they would continue to deal with Loki.

And yet the shocked, almost pained expression on his face continued to linger before her eyes like an impression of bright lights, all the clearer when she tried to shut it out.

Natasha spent the next two hours sitting up on the rooftop, gazing out at the skyline and at the streets far below her. It would be fitting to say that she used the time for introspection, to figure out a few of the more pressing problems in her life like how to discover a way to combat the imminent danger approaching the Earth or how to deal with her disintegrating personal life, but that would be a vast overstatement. Mostly she simply watched the city and attempted to ignore the thoughts pressing down on her brain, the most prominent of which being why exactly Loki looked so aghast at her final question.

The worst part was that in some sad way she already knew.


	10. Through the Glass

 Seventeen days.

It had been seventeen days since Agent Romanoff's last visit, and Loki had spent every single one writhing in a constant state of mingled rage and paranoia.

It simply made no sense. He was the god between the two of them; she should not be able to manipulate him as she had done. Somehow she had forced him to show weakness, to show her more explicitly what lay buried within his soul than any words could have conveyed, all by stopping his silver tongue in mid-wag. Twice.

To make matters worse, it seemed that every time he attempted to do the same, to cut his way beneath her pale flesh, to throw sand and salt in her wounds, he was unsuccessful. She'd given him those crystal tears he so loved to see, this was true, but he didn't trust her enough not to question whether it was all part of some grand, elaborate act. It was entirely possible that all of her emotional reactions, even the way she lashed out at him when he stroked the wrong nerve, were nothing more than carefully plucked strings, single notes in a long symphony designed to break him down for...for what, exactly?

The agent had asked the most pertinent questions he could imagine in terms of what was to be done about Thanos: what, how, when. His clueless answers, useless as they were, were honest. It may have been foolish of him to bargain with an entity about whom he knew so little, but he had what Thanos wanted, and Thanos was able to give him things he greatly desired in return. Up until the part where he failed miserably it had seemed like a fair exchange.

Agent Romanoff knew all of these things, or had at least deduced them by now, so, Loki wondered, why did she continue to attempt to crack him?

“Rise and shine, Sleepyhead.”

Her sarcastic voice curled through the air, a familiar length of red satin ribbon sliding through his ears, binding his agitated thoughts. Loki sat bolt upright on his cot and swung his legs over the edge, his hands gripping the metal frame. Immediately his eyes alighted on the familiar sight of the agent, that insufferable spark of superiority burning in her pale jade eyes, her elegant flame-colored curls falling loosely about her rounded shoulders, alabaster neck exposed above the collar of her...

Loki tilted his head to the side slightly, a wry smirk pulling the corners of his lips upward. “Agent,” he stated delicately. “To what do I owe this overdue and...surprisingly casual visit?” His gaze lowered, briefly inspecting the washed-out dark red v-neck t-shirt she wore, coupled with a pair of noticeably tight black skinny jeans. It was only the second time he had ever seen her outside of her suit, and he couldn't help but remark to himself that it was at once both an odd and oddly pleasing sight.

Agent Romanoff, for her part, seemed not to begrudge him his curiosity as he looked her over. She allowed him a few moments before she, not without some amusement, said, “We're going on a field trip.”

Loki's eyes snapped onto hers. “You'll have to pardon me. I am not familiar with the phrase,” he said carefully. He didn't like admitting when something was unfamiliar to him, but it wasn't as though he placed any value in Midgardian slang.

The agent allowed a measured smirk to cross her lips. “It means I'm taking you for a walk. Go stand by the door,” she instructed him.

Loki's eyes narrowed, his expression brimming with curiosity. It seemed he never knew what she was going to do next. He wasn't hesitant to comply, however, and quickly rose to his feet, coming to a halt just a couple of feet behind the door. A few seconds went by before the portal began to move inward, issuing a slight hiss at the change in air pressure between the cell and the corridor beyond. Agent Romanoff stood outside the threshold. Her eyes met his, and she beckoned him forward with one finger.

His feet automatically carried him toward her.

“Close enough,” she said serenely, stopping him after only a few steps. “Hands out,” she instructed, and once again he obeyed.

He still made no move to hide the arrogant smirk that crossed his lips. “Your director truly believes that your primitive restraints will—”

Something clapped over his wrists, and all at once he suddenly felt as though he might fall through the metal floor. An odd, horrible sensation overtook him. It was as though his life, his very essence were being sucked out of him through a straw. His features distorted in panic and discomfort as he stood rooted to the spot, his eyes burning with betrayal as he stared back at Agent Romanoff's placid, smiling face.

As quickly as it had begun the sensation faded away, leaving him feeling weak and heavy. Loki looked down at what she had closed over his arms for the first time and saw a pair of shackles, although they were clearly not of Earth. The metal appeared at once both gold and silver. It was highly reflective and almost seemed to shimmer. Three thick bands braided through one another, and each was etched with a set of complicated runes which he immediately recognized. The cuffs were connected by a deceptively thin but extraordinarily strong chain about a foot in length.

“So,” he said, his voice at once amused and hateful, “my brother has brought me a gift.”

The agent's lips curled upward into a smile that said she was clearly enjoying this. “You can thank him yourself in a few minutes,” she returned before she unceremoniously grasped the chain binding his wrists and dragged him forward a few steps. She let go then, leaving him to follow her as he would, and it was with grudging steps and an overwhelming desire to break her tiny fingers that he allowed her to lead him away from his cell.

* * *

 Natasha pulled open one of the ground level doors leading into Stark Tower, stepping to the side and smirking slightly as Loki walked past her wearing a glare to end all glares. He never asked where they were going throughout the brief and, thanks to her driving, quite terrifying car ride, so she hadn't felt the need to warn him that his big day out was going to be spent in the company of superheroes. It hadn't necessarily been her first choice either, but it was the only condition under which she was able to convince Fury to let her take him out of his cage. Even then it had been a four hour uphill battle that involved citing specific recorded incidents between the two of them, the laying of elaborate security measures, a phone call to a reluctant and frantic Tony (which admittedly didn't help the case much), and another phone call to Jane Foster and, through her, Thor (which would have been much more hilarious under different circumstances), but eventually she managed to get Fury to come around.

Apparently a little fresh air would probably go a long way in getting Loki to cooperate with them, the fact that he had nothing with which to cooperate notwithstanding.

At any rate, Natasha followed Loki into the building's lobby and was immediately greeted by a thunderous roar of, “Brother!” and the sight of Thor wrapping his tree-trunk sized arms around Loki's torso. The slimmer god was lifted clean off the floor by his larger sibling, and Natasha couldn't help but smile at the heartwarming reunion she was witnessing.

“ _Put. Me. Down!_ ” Loki hissed, although the hushed tone of voice seemed to be due more to lack of oxygen than even Thor's exuberant show of affection.

“I am sorry,” the huge man chuckled as he set his brother on the floor once more, although even then both of his hands came upward to hold his shoulders out at arms' length. “How do you fare? Have they treated you poorly?” he inquired seriously.

Loki huffed as he stared at Thor in irritation and then somewhat venomously replied, “I can hardly complain. It isn't as though I've been imprisoned all this time.”

Thor seemed taken aback by his brother's words, so Natasha stepped up to the pair of them and informed him, “He gets a bed and three square meals a day. Privileges when he plays nice.”

This pleased the god enough to bring back his bright smile. “That is generous,” he said with an approving nod in Natasha's direction. “You must come, Loki. The others await your arrival.”

“The others?” Loki hissed, and this time the tone had nothing to do with lack of oxygen.

“You didn't think Thor was the only one excited to see you, did you?” Natasha smiled before she jerked her chin in Thor's direction, the large man already leading the way over to the elevator. It was only then, as she watched him go for a moment, that she realized he was wearing “Midgardian” clothes. _Must have come from Jane's_ , she thought absently, following after Loki when he'd finished glaring at her and begun walking.

A couple of minutes later the three of them stepped out onto one of Tony's personal floors situated above the business section of the building. It was, for all intents and purposes, a recreational room. The floor was completely open, void of walls or doors save for one, adorned with a cheeky unisex bathroom sign, set into the side of the room. A hundred-and-two inch flat screen television was mounted on one wall, surrounded by one of Tony's favorite tan, suede semi-circular couches. A sound system sat in one corner of the room, a full bar occupied the wall opposite the television, an air hockey table sat nearer the center of the room, and a handful of old arcade games were set up closer to the large, floor-to-ceiling windows.

Tony and Bruce, who were engaged in what looked like a very competitive air hockey tournament, looked up at the sound of people entering the room. Steve's attention remained on the television as he was incredibly engrossed in some kind of movie. When Natasha looked over to see what it was, she almost laughed out loud. Someone had set the Captain down to watch _Predator_. Clint was absent; he was still on assignment, she hadn't even checked to find out where.

“So,” Tony began, dropping his paddle as he began sauntering over to the newly arrived trio, “these handcuff things take away his magic?”

Natasha nodded beside Loki.

“And they suppress his god strength, turn him into a delicate little flower just like the rest of us?”

“That is correct,” Thor answered, a mild note of confusion in his tone at the metaphor.

Tony, however, was all smiles at that response. “Well, then,” he said, and not a moment later he drew his fist back and crashed his knuckles straight into Loki's jaw. Loki stumbled backward a couple of steps, his expression utterly shocked that such a blow could possibly cause him any amount of pain, and Tony stood shaking out his hand. “That felt good,” he commented, his wide grin returning.

“Stark,” Thor said threateningly, a dark look coming over him as he stepped protectively in front of his brother.

Tony brushed him off at that point and turned to walk back to the air hockey table. “He deserved it,” he said, nonchalantly albeit a bit coldly, before he took up his paddle again. “You cheat, Doc?”

Natasha didn't have the opportunity to hear Bruce's response. She'd taken a couple of steps forward, intending to plant herself beside Steve, but a hand seized her roughly by the upper arm. Her brows furrowed and she turned, finding herself, unsurprisingly, face to face with Loki. “What is the meaning of this? Why have you brought me here?” he demanded in a hushed, threatening tone.

One of Natasha's red eyebrows slid upward. “Can't keep you all to myself, can I?” she answered, a bit cryptically. Truth be told, she wasn't entirely sure why she wanted to bring Loki around the rest of the team. It seemed like a good idea, and her instincts were the only things she truly trusted.

Loki's eyes narrowed at her and he glanced around at Tony. “You can, and you should have,” he said tersely.

“You starting to warm up to me?” she shot back before she could help herself. She kept a small, somewhat cunning smile on her face even as Loki's eyes widened in what looked like disbelief. Carefully Natasha stepped away from him, and at the move he seemed to regain his composure. His lips pressed together in a hard line, his eyes turned carefully blank and his fingers uncurled from her arm.

She turned her back on him quickly and made for the couch, doing her best to repress the shiver that ran up her spine. That was the first time they had ever touched one another.

Natasha sank down onto the couch beside Steve who looked over at her for the first time since Tony's assault a minute prior. “Thor said you told him to tell us Loki was coming to visit. What's going on?” he asked her, a confused look in his eyes as they darted back and forth between her and the action movie he was trying not to miss.

She could only grin for a moment at his efforts before she explained, “Immersion therapy. Get Loki out a little, get him around people, see if he cooperates. We have a rapport but I wasn't getting anywhere from outside his cell.”

“Seems a little unorthodox,” he told her apprehensively.

“You're a super soldier watching sci-fi movies in the multi-million dollar corporate headquarters-slash-personal residence of one of the richest men in the world in the company of a genetically altered super spy, a modern re-imagining of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a Norse god. It's not _that_ unorthodox.”

Steve regarded her for a long moment, but once the weight of her statement dawned on him he smiled and had to laugh a bit. “I suppose you're right,” he conceded, turning his full attention back to the movie.

Natasha let her own eyes wander to the screen, not feeling the need to supervise Loki very much since he could, now at least, be easily subdued by more than half the people in the room. Besides, she had the feeling that Thor wouldn't let him out of his sight. No matter what Loki did, no matter what his parentage, Thor considered him his brother and was obviously thrilled to have him back. A few minutes went by before she chanced a glance over her shoulder, and just as she'd expected she spotted the two of them sitting down a little ways away, their heads together in some kind of private discussion.

She turned her eyes back to the movie, but it seemed that no sooner had the brothers' conversation ended, some twenty minutes or so after she'd checked, Loki appeared in her peripheral vision. Natasha's eyes slid over to him and she watched as he carefully lowered himself onto the couch beside her, just enough room between them that neither would need to worry about accidentally bumping the other. His apprehensive gaze met hers, and she let the corner of her lips curl upward.


	11. Trust My Rage

 Natasha sat up at the sound of the door opening, her eyes looking out over the back of the couch to see Clint dragging himself back into their apartment. This latest mission was a long one; he'd been gone for just over a month. She was glad for the reprieve, honestly, for the opportunity to work and come home without needing to worry about how anyone else felt about her actions, but she knew better than anyone that the distinction between “long” and “too long” on a mission was an important one. Regardless of how she happened to feel about him, she cared about Clint and was glad to see that he was home in one piece.

“Hey, you're back! You alright?” she called to him, a welcoming smile stretching across her lips.

He shut the door and then looked up at her for the first time, and her smile immediately faltered. Clint's jaw was set and his brows were furrowed, his grey eyes stormy as he regarded her. “No, I'm not alright,” he said, and his voice shook with restraint.

Natasha narrowed her eyes warily and set her copy of _The Luzhin Defense_ on the coffee table. “What happened?” she ventured, getting to her feet. Her eyes never left Clint. He didn't look like himself.

The archer advanced on her, but he came to a stop when he reached the back of the couch, leaving the piece of furniture between them. “Why the hell did you take that _thing_ out of his cage?” he asked, voice still trembling.

Natasha valiantly resisted the urge to roll her eyes; _this_ was the big problem? “Seriously, Clint? You've been in Moldova a whole month and _this_ is what you want to ta—”

“ _Yes, this is what I wanna fucking talk about!_ ” he shouted at her, his expression wild. Silence rang through the room after his outburst, and Natasha leveled at him a glare so icy it broke through his rage. Somehow he reined his temper in again and forced out, “What you're doing is stupid, Tasha. _Loki is not human._ You can't appeal to a human nature that's not there. You are not gonna get through to him and he is never gonna give anything up. According to Fury, he's already said he doesn't know anything, so what the hell are you trying to accomplish by parading him around all the people who nearly died trying to stop him?”

Natasha swallowed, hard. It took effort for her to ignore Clint's use of the nickname she repeatedly told him not to call her, but there were more important things that needed to be addressed. Her own voice low and controlled, in stark contrast to his barely contained rage, she returned, “What makes you think I'm appealing to his human nature?”

Clint balked at her. “Are you listening to me? Jesus Christ, I'm standing _right here_ practically shouting at you! Aren't you paying attention?”

“Are you?” she countered, her own volume rising just slightly. “I know what I'm doing, Clint. I've had a hell of a lot more experience interrogating people than you.”

“It's been six weeks! What do you have to show for it?”

“You wouldn't understand,” she said coldly, her eyes narrowing.

This seemed to bother Clint more than Natasha could have expected. His eyes widened, his hands balled into fists, and he grit his teeth so hard she almost expected them to break. A long moment passed in silence, and then he said, in a voice filled with dangerous calm, “Explain it to me. For once.”

A weight dropped into Natasha's stomach at his request. She denied him so much, she wanted to deny him this as well, but somehow it didn't seem right to her. She might choose to ignore a lot of things but she wasn't blind; she could see how badly her determination to crack Loki affected him before he left, and since Fury had apparently let the cat out of the bag at Clint's debriefing, she didn't think she could maneuver out of this even if she wanted to. Still, she wouldn't tell him the whole truth. Even if it was Loki they were talking about, some things were supposed to stay in the dark.

She measured each word meticulously as she began, “We don't know the whole story behind the Chitauri war yet. There's something he's not telling us, and whatever it is, it's important. I have a feeling it's got something to do with why he faked his death, but I don't know for sure. His behavior's also...He doesn't always _act_ like Loki. I've taken him to the tower to see the team three times, and every time he just sits next to me and doesn't say a wor—”

“You've taken him there _three times_?” Clint interrupted, actually shouting a little.

Natasha huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. Of all the important things she'd let slip in those few sentences, _that_ was the thing he latched onto. “Yeah, that's what I said,” she stated tersely.

“Natasha, what are you doing?” he implored her, his confusion mixing with the anger he was still trying to restrain. “You can't just take him out and play with him! He's dangerous—did you forget how many people died during that fight?”

“How can you ask me that?” she nearly growled, her fingertips digging into her arms as she made the effort to keep her hands in place.

“Because you talk about this guy like he's a _person_ with _feelings_! He's a _monster_ , Nat! He's fuckin' crazy and all he wants is to get under your skin and pull your strings and turn you against the rest of us—”

“How do you know what he wants?” Natasha heard herself shouting. She wasn't sure where the question had come from, but as soon as it was in the air, slapping Clint in the face and stopping him in his tracks, she wanted to stand by it.

“Wh—do you hear yourself?” he stuttered. “How can you defend him after everything he's done? To all of us, to me—”

“Because you don't know the first thing about him,” Natasha said sharply. “I told you, you wouldn't understand. _This_ is why I don't talk to you.”

Her words seemed at once to wound him and to anger him all the more. Clint stared at her, open mouthed, working around for something to say until he simply shook his head, dumbfounded. “Natasha—I don't know what this guy has done to you to make you, what, sympathize with him? But whatever it is, you gotta snap out of it right now. He's a lunatic, a killer, and you're nothing like him. You've got nothing in common,” he told her with the forced calm of someone trying to reason to with a person who was losing their mind.

The tone of voice, as well as the words it carried, only made Natasha angrier. Clint's fury burned like a closed flame, but hers was cold, solid ice at the core, covered in glittering, razor sharp frost. “Don't tell me who I do and do not have things in common with. You don't know the first thing about me, either,” she said, her message cutting a path straight through Clint.

She turned away from him and headed for the bedroom. He called after her as she made the door, but she shut it forcefully behind her and turned the lock. Two minutes later she was fully outfitted, her catsuit and gear replacing the comfortable pajamas she'd been lounging in earlier. She left the bedroom once more, and as soon as she stepped into the living room, Clint was on his feet and walking toward her. “Tasha—” he tried to say, but she put a stop to the rest of his sentence.

Whirling on him, she flashed him an icy glare and warned, “ _Don't_ call me that.” A tangible silence hung in the air for a brief moment, thick with hurt and anger. The front door slammed, and Natasha disappeared.

* * *

 Loki stretched out on his cot, his hands folded behind his head, his ankles crossing one another as his feet poked out over the edge of the hard mattress. His brows were furrowed, his unblinking gaze trained on some distant point in the metal ceiling. It had ceased looking like metal hours ago.

His imagination transformed the dull silver sheet above him into a world of red and white. Pale moons gleamed beneath delicate sunlit horizons. Roses bloomed amid soft, snow-covered hills. Elegant red ribbons curled over a sculpted porcelain figure, and a steady flame burned, unflinching, in a world clouded and coated in frost.

It frightened him that he could think of her this way.

After all, what was Agent Romanoff to him? She held the keys to his cage. Occasionally she walked him like a dog, and when she decided he'd had his fun for the day, she would lock him away again. She was cruel, manipulative, determined to force him to stare into the eyes of his most terrifying demons while she watched on in mute satisfaction. She stripped away his armor, his illusions, and made him see himself for what he was. _Monster_. She had said it herself.

He should kill her for saying it. He _wanted_ to kill her for saying it. And yet...

Loki sat bolt upright, the sound of hard, marching footsteps reaching his ears. He was on his feet and standing close to the glass barrier in a flash, interested to see who was coming to visit him tonight. He knew it wasn't the agent; her footsteps were quiet, little more than whispers over the concrete floor. She'd come to see him enough throughout the past six weeks that he'd learned to recognize the sound.

Natasha entered his field of vision then, her expression livid, her dainty curls thrown over her shoulders like wildfire. The sight of her this infuriated took him aback, primarily because he knew that he wasn't the cause. He hadn't seen her for three days, ever since their last excursion to Stark Tower, and even then he'd merely sat silently beside her, attempting to avoid the gaze of everyone else. Tony continued to goad and insult him, Thor perpetually hugged the line between literally hugging him and offering him his space, and everyone else simply ignored him. Natasha was consistently the only person who acknowledged him but didn't encroach upon him.

Tonight, however, seemed as though it would be a different story. She didn't so much as glance at him through the glass as she went straight to the cell's door. A moment later it swung inward to allow her admittance, and he was still in the process of turning to face her before her tiny fist swung at him, connecting with his cheekbone. In her rage she had apparently neglected to bring his shackles so the blow did little more than turn his head, but it took him aback so thoroughly that he retreated a step in shock.

Loki's eyes widened in mute incomprehension as the agent advanced, a snarl on her lips and murder in her gaze. She swung at him again, and again, her fists connecting with his chest, stomach, beneath his chin—anywhere she could reach, it seemed. He continued to take step after step backward and still on she advanced until he decided that whatever this confrontation was, it needed to stop.

And then he realized that she was talking to herself.

Her lips were moving, muttering something he couldn't hear, but as the ineffectual blows continued she began to propel the words forward with more and more force until she was barely restraining full-bodied shouts.

_“Ugly!_ ”

Punch.

_“Lunatic!”_

Punch.

_“Killer!”_

Punch.

_“Not—”_

Punch.

_“—human!”_

Punch.

_“Monster!”_

Loki's arm shot forward, his hand closing around Natasha's wrist at the word. She froze in her tracks momentarily, and then she drew back her other fist to continue the beating before he reached out and took hold of that wrist as well. She began to struggle, and without thinking he lifted her clear of the ground and turned around, taking one swift step forward to pin her firmly against the metal wall behind her.

“Let—go!” the agent demanded through gritted teeth. Her rage, apparently unabated by his sudden intervention, was so fierce that she continued to attempt to fight back. She began to raise a leg, and as Loki had no desire to get kicked as well in the midst of this tantrum she was throwing, he promptly threw her to the side and shoved the front of her body against the wall this time. His hands closed around her wrists again, pulling them together so he could bind them both behind the small of her back.

Loki pressed in closer as Natasha struggled in his grip, pushing his chest against the backs of her shoulders to hold her more firmly against the wall. Her cheek was flat against the cold metal and her eyes were closed, her red brows forming an angry ridge and her mouth shaping barely voiceless curses. It disturbed him to see her this way, so full of fury, so emotional. She was like him in the way that she could maintain a lie throughout her entire body, never once allowing a hint of her true feelings to crack through. She was so good at it, in fact, that he had still never fully discerned her motivations for spending as much time with him, or discussing certain subjects, as she did.

It seemed that in this moment, when the rage finally won over the forced calm, she was like him as well.

Several very long seconds passed, and as they did, her struggles came with less force, less determination. After about a minute the agent went nearly limp against the wall, his body and her knees bent into the metal being the only things preventing her from falling to the floor. Her breathing was a bit labored, slow and heavy, and Loki almost imagined he could hear her thunderous heartbeat begin to slow.

Even after she stopped inexplicably trying to reduce him to tenderized meat, after she grew calm and her eyes opened, neither of them attempted to move from their position. Loki's grip over her wrists slackened but he didn't let go; she didn't try to make him. He let his forehead rest lightly against the cool wall, his chin hovering above the top of her head. She breathed deeply, just deeply enough that her wild curls brushed against his cold skin.

Loki thought about speaking, about asking her why, in her rage, she had come to him instead of one of her friends, but the desire was fleeting. In some sad way he already knew.


	12. A Fire Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to offer a quick thank you to anyone who has stuck with the story so far! I appreciate the time you've invested, and I truly hope you've enjoyed what you've read - I know I've had a wonderful time developing the events that have unfolded thus far. However, I admit that I struggled quite a lot in formulating and writing this chapter. If any kind soul would like to offer some feedback on the content I would be extremely grateful - if not, thank you again for sticking with me this far!

Loki sat hunched over the edge of his cot, his fingertips firmly but gently massaging his temples. Mental forays across the realms always gave him terrible headaches. No matter how powerful his magic happened to be, and it was powerful, there was nothing he could do to combat the energy needed to constantly maintain a convincing illusion on an entirely separate realm as well as project his consciousness that far through space. There was also the small matter of constantly shielding himself from Heimdall's gaze. That would have been difficult enough without having to be in two places, and be two people, at the same time.

To make matters worse, he rarely devoted his full attention to any of these things anymore save for those occasions when Asgard truly needed him. Contrary to popular belief, Loki cared about the good of his realm. Like Odin, there was a purpose to everything he did. There had been a purpose behind his actions the day he let the Frost Giants into Asgard to forestall his brother's coronation, there had been a purpose to his actions when he faked his death on Svartalfheim, and there had been a purpose to his actions when he revealed himself to the Avengers.

There had been a purpose to his actions the other night, when he refrained from snapping Agent Romanoff's neck, he just hadn't discovered what it was yet.

Days had gone by since that incident, and still his thoughts so frequently returned to it. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel her shoulders pressed against his chest, her curls gently bobbing in time with her breathing. Her warm skin beneath his cool fingers. The shameful, almost cold look in her eye as she finally broke away from him and stalked from his cell.

He couldn't understand how she was able to crawl so far beneath his skin, how she was able to stick in his thoughts like a poisoned arrow, at once maddening and confusing him like no mortal should. Each time they spoke, it was like entering into a verbal chess game. She would move tentatively forward, he would play the aggressor. She would defend. He would move forward. She would play the aggressor. He would attack in turn. She would match his advance, over and over until they stood head to head, locked in an infuriating stalemate time and time again.

In all his thousand some-odd years, Loki had never met another creature capable of seeing through him, of standing up to him as she did. His mother, perhaps, but even Frigga always believed the best of him. Natasha...she was no optimist. She believed in what _was_ , not in what should be.

And then a thought struck him.

_“You're just as ugly as I am. Never forget that.”_

The corners of the god's lips curled upward.

* * *

Natasha's steps were light, measured. The soft soles of her boots made not a whisper over the cold concrete. Her catsuit was zipped up a little higher than was customary. The fingers of her right hand rested close to the grip of the gun holstered to her slender thigh.

Her expression belied none of the rage that had controlled her during her last visit.

To say that Loki had compromised her would be to sell the situation far short of her reality. She realized that now. For decades her methods involved getting a little too close to her targets, assimilating herself into their lives in every way before taking what she wanted from them, but this situation was getting out of hand. It was too difficult to maintain control around him when half the time she could hardly tell whether she was staring into his smoldering green eyes or her own.

It was stupid to tempt fate yet again, but this was something she needed to do for herself.

The assassin approached the faint glow surrounding Loki's cell, the light slowly illuminating her porcelain features, her fiery hair, the shadows that had collected below her eyes. She resisted the temptation to glance through the glass and instead continued to the door, unsealing it with the press of her hand. The portal swung open with its familiar hiss, and she stepped inside.

Loki didn't look up immediately as she moved to stand before him, arms crossed over her chest. He sat watching the floor for several moments before his shoulders straightened and he turned his face up to regard her. He was already smiling, the expression full of knowledge, full of mischief. “I hadn't expected to see you again, Agent Romanoff,” he purred.

She was silent.

“After your last...visit...I daresay I did not think you would be brave enough to return,” he continued. When still she didn't speak, he added, “Still so cold, Agent...and here I believed we were past this.”

“What made you believe that?” she ventured, although she knew it was a bold question.

Loki flashed her that chaotic grin. “Well, for starters, you are here,” he began, his voice amused, arrogant. “You visit me regularly...often...You bring me gifts, take me to spend time outside of my cell although I have little doubt that everyone attempted to convince you it was foolish...You show me pieces of yourself that you would not show even your beloved archer...”

Natasha's stomach turned uncomfortably, but she gave no indication that he was making her nervous.

“Come now, Agent,” Loki continued to purr, his low voice soft as he moved to stand. Within moments he towered over her and her head tilted back to allow him to fill her field of vision. “You must have known I would figure it out,” he continued, taking a small step toward her. She eyed him warily, but he didn't stop his advance. “I wonder what happened to make you so angry...to fill you with such rage that you could not trust yourself with any of your precious friends. What could have possibly driven you here, into the waiting arms of your enemy? Is there really no one else in your pathetic life that you could turn to?”

Natasha continued to back away from Loki, each of their small steps coming in time with one another.

“But you choose to be alone, do you not? To let someone in, to share your secrets, would be to show weakness, and you cannot allow your friends to think you fragile...I would wager that you keep Agent Barton, who would love more than any to know what truly lies beneath this uniform, as far away from your cold heart as possible...He could never understand what you are...If he could, then you would not be here...”

Loki's voice trailed away as Natasha's back connected with the glass barrier. The sudden collision startled her, just enough to make the muscles in her neck twitch with surprise, but Loki didn't miss it. The corners of his mouth curled further upward, his bright eyes smoldering.

She was drawn into his gaze. Before it occurred to her to react, to attempt to get away from him, he was already continuing, “You are a creature of the dark, Natalia...You are drawn to me because I am in the dark beside you. I _know_ you...and that frightens you so badly you cannot stay away.”

Loki closed the gap between them, his chest brushing against Natasha's crossed arms. She instinctively recoiled, pulled her arms back and got her hands between them, her palms pressing back against his rib cage. His velvety voice continued to swirl through her head as she tried to figure out how he knew these things, how he saw through her as though she were as transparent as the glass at her back. A strand of panic began to wind itself around her brain stem, elevating her heart rate slightly and restricting her breathing. Her lips parted a fraction and her eyelids fluttered.

Loki's hands connected with either side of her waist and she drew in a sharp breath. “Like a moth to a flame you flutter around me, at once compelled to look yet afraid of what you will see,” he went on, his low voice growing husky, heavy. Millimeter by millimeter he leaned closer to her. His hands began to sneak lower over her hips. “You try to bury what you are, but the past is seldom content to remain underground. It digs its way out, clawing and screaming for recognition,” Loki all but whispered as his chest connected with hers and his hands slid ever lower, gliding firmly over the curves of her body.

He seized her backside without warning and pressed himself flush against her, the sudden contact forcing Natasha's eyes wide as she drew in a shocked gasp. Her hands clenched reflexively around the leather straps of his armor, her cheeks flushed and a chill tore up her spine, her small body shuddering in what limited space Loki had allowed her between himself and the glass. “Is this not what you came here for?” he purred gently, his breath cool against her ear. “To seek out the flame? To face what you are? I will show you, Natasha...in exquisite detail...the monster lurking beneath your beautiful flesh.”

Natasha's head tilted back and she swallowed hard, the quietest moan slipping between her lips as she exhaled. Her fingers tightened around his armor as she squirmed against him, her thoughts clouded, her instincts fuzzy and delayed.

She released her Widow's Bites and Loki convulsed for several seconds before he stumbled away from her a couple steps, his movements clumsy and his eyes unfocused. The shock would have brought any mortal down, but he was no mortal and Natasha knew she needed to move quickly. Bracing a hand against the barrier, she threw her weight into the air, her legs arcing over her head to kick Loki across the face twice in quick succession. The blows caught him off guard enough that he stumbled yet again, a hand coming up to grope for something to hold onto while he continued to reel from the electric shock.

The door closed behind Natasha in seconds, and by the time Loki gained his footing she was already stepping into the elevator at the end of the hall. She walked straight to the back of it and planted both palms against the metal wall, bracing herself as she lowered her head and sucked in several fast, deep breaths. Her legs and arms shook and her head buzzed from the close encounter. She could practically still feel Loki standing against her, pinning her to the glass, his cold breath grazing her neck, his silky voice curling in her ear.

_“I will show you, Natasha...in exquisite detail...the monster lurking beneath your beautiful flesh.”_

She let out a shaky breath and lowered the zipper of her catsuit. A flame flickered in her core that seemed to warm the entire, tiny elevator, and it terrified her.

 


	13. Monsters

Natasha swallowed and held her eyes closed so firmly that it hurt. Her hand followed the length of Clint's forearm and she pushed her fingers through his, squeezing the back of his hand and pressing it firmly against her collar. He gave a quiet grunt and shifted in his sleep, his nose nestling closer in the crook of her neck.

_This is where you want to be. This is where you belong. Safe. Warm. With Clint._

She swallowed again and listened to the sound of his steady, rhythmic breathing. Her lungs drew in air, held, and exhaled in time with his. Her free hand clutched the edge of her pillow so firmly that the blood drained from her knuckles.

A breeze passed through the open window, brushing lightly across Natasha's bare neck and shoulder. She gasped.

_Stop it. **Stop. It.** You don't—no, don't even **think** it. It's sick. **He's** sick. You said it yourself, he's a—_

Natasha shuddered and her eyes flew open, pale green specks in the fluid darkness of her bedroom. Clint shifted again at her movement and she felt her stomach turn, her skin crawl. This wasn't right. None of it was right. Carefully she slipped out from under his arm, deftly sliding her pillow against his chest to fill the empty space she left on the mattress.

She stood, frozen, caught between the bed and the door. She looked back and forth, her eyes alternating between Clint's sleeping frame and the living room, barely visible through the crack between the door and the jamb. This was the third night in a row she'd snuck out of bed, unable to shut out the words still winding through her mind, unable to forget the feel of those hands, cold even through the thick fabric of her suit...unable to sleep wrapped in Clint's hot, clumsy arms.

The assassin swallowed again as she stood in the darkness, her fingers shaking and her eyes darting back and forth. She felt as though she were caught in her own web, helplessly staring on at the advancing spider, pincers clicking threateningly, spindly legs carrying its round body, fat with venom, closer and closer until she was staring into its eight, unblinking eyes. The vision made her shudder again, her head shaking back and forth to clear it, but the feeling, the web, remained.

Another breeze wafted in through the window, and goosebumps erupted over her pale skin.

Natasha moved over to the closet and opened it without a sound. Gingerly she slid the back panel aside, revealing a hidden alcove in which she stored her catsuit and gear. She changed quickly, as quietly as she could despite how heavily Clint was sleeping, and strapped into her things. Her fingers still shook, making the process slower and unusually difficult, but soon she stood, fully dressed, in the doorway. She gave the archer's sleeping face one last long look before she clenched her jaw and turned her back on him.

Less than an hour passed before Natasha found herself striding down the dimly lit, underground corridor, the faint ring of white light at its end beckoning her, making a mockery of the dark, filthy desires that drew her to it. Her jaw was still clenched, the muscles behind her ears beginning to grow sore although there was nothing she could do to relax. The verb “relax” had left her vocabulary three days ago. Her eyes didn't so much as twitch toward the glass barrier as she passed it. She was focusing on this descent into Hell one step at a time.

She pressed her hand to the identification scanner.

The door released.

She stepped inside.

When Natasha finally allowed herself to look up, her cold gaze connected immediately with Loki, standing as he was in the center of the cell. His expression almost surprised her. He seemed to regard her with apprehension, his eyes narrowed and his head turned only slightly, as though he were preparing himself for whatever she might do. His hands hung loosely at his sides. His posture suggested nothing threatening.

She took some satisfaction in knowing that her reaction to his advances bothered him.

Unflinching, her icy glare still locked in place, she quietly asked, “The cameras?”

Loki shook his head. He was unshackled and still able to use his magic, so she trusted that he'd probably been concealing their interactions for quite some time. If not, she knew where they kept the footage.

Her eyes narrowed at him, the loathing in her gaze palpable. “You _are_ a monster,” she nearly growled at him, only barely restraining her contempt.

“With you, I can pretend to be nothing else,” Loki replied delicately, his deep voice soft and measured.

Natasha's heart beat once.

A chill ran up her spine.

Twice.

A pang of guilt tore through her.

Thrice.

“Neither can I,” she all but whispered, and with a few impossibly quick steps she closed the distance between them. Her hands connected with Loki's chest and she pushed him back, or rather he allowed her to push him back, until he connected with the metal wall on the other side of the cell. Her eyes burned into his armor as she began scrabbling at it, having no clue how in the hell any of it was supposed to come off. There were no noticeable buckles or ties anywhere on him, and as the first couple of seconds ticked by, she half expected him to laugh at her pathetic efforts and shove her backward again.

He did no such thing. The intricately woven leather and cloth fell away in a heap at his feet, leaving the upper half of his body exposed beneath her searching hands. Her palms connected with his cool chest and she shuddered, immediately pressing in against him as her fingers explored the curves of his lean muscles. He was chiseled, powerful, elegant...so unlike her short, stocky Clint.

Natasha's breathing was already growing a bit heavy as her fingertips connected with the hem of the pants he still wore. She began to fumble with them, having a bit more success this time around, as her lips pressed against the hollow at the base of his neck. She trailed them along his collar, jumping slightly when she heard all of her gear, her trusted weapons, clatter to the metal floor. Loki's long fingers curled in her hair and made a fist, pulling a faint whimper from her and forcing her to forget all about the loss of her security blankets.

The flame that chased her away days prior exploded in the core of her body once more, and the part of her that was still determined to punish him for making her feel this way, to punish _herself_ for feeling this way, bit down directly on his collarbone, hard. A strained growl clawed out of his throat and he yanked her head back, his wolfish gaze capturing her own, caught somewhere between lust and fury. The zipper of her catsuit tore downward without warning, the fabric strewn across the floor only moments later. Loki's lips broke apart in that familiar, chaotic smile.

Natasha pulled her hand up and slapped it off his face.

He snarled at her and seized her by the waist, effortlessly spinning her and slamming her back into the cold, metal wall. Her arms were trapped between them as he pressed in closer, one of his hands drifting over her stomach and dipping between her legs. His cold finger slipped between her already wet folds and pressed against her clit, gliding mercilessly over it, his glinting, emerald eyes never leaving hers even as they rolled shut.

She cried out at his touch, her nails clawing at his skin. He pressed his fingertip against her opening but was careful to go no further, each tiny movement meant to make her squirm.

_“Exquisite,”_ he purred, his low voice heavy, almost breathless against her lips.

He slid his finger forward a fraction of an inch. Natasha's strained whimper broke over him and she dug her nails into his skin. She was so unfocused that it was the only way she had to cause him any measure of pain.

The move pulled a labored growl from the back of his throat as he pressed the cool digit into her body. She let out an uncontrollable, reluctant moan and her back arched. Her hands slid over his neck and into his dark hair, her eyes finally opening, her vision filling with his burning, hungry gaze.

Natasha's nerves were made of steel, but after barely a minute of Loki's painfully focused, meticulous attention they were white hot and coming apart all around her. Her body was on fire, quivering and trembling at his every touch, breathless whimpers and cries tumbling through her lips one after the other. She couldn't remember the last time she had wanted anybody as badly as she wanted him, all her efforts to cause him pain abandoned in favor of attempts to drag him ever closer.

Her leg slid along his as she hooked her knee over his bare hip; she had no idea when his pants had come off. One of her hands curled around the back of his neck, the other still lost in his black locks, her fingertips scratching mindlessly at his scalp. He bent his head, his lips brushing over her ear as he asked, “Is there something you need, Agent Romanoff?”

The god's voice felt like silk and daggers trailing across her skin, soft and cool and razor sharp. Natasha opened her mouth to answer as Loki began to pull his finger back, once again sliding it firmly along the most sensitive path of her body. Her words died in her throat and she let out a helpless whimper, her eyelids fluttering as she stared back at him, unspoken pleas for more swimming in her pale eyes.

Loki's hand wrapped around the underside of her thigh. She attempted to pick the leg up, to wrap herself around him, but he held her fast. “Tell me,” he breathed, burning her up in the intensity of his gaze.

Her lips trembled, but she held her tongue. The last vestige of defiance left in her wouldn't let her beg for this, not from him.

He swept her leg out from under her and quickly closed what little distance remained between them. The open palm of his free hand collided with the wall beside her head hard enough to leave a dent as he positioned himself at the warm center of her body. _“Tell me,”_ he growled fiercely, his snarl millimeter's away from Natasha's own wide-eyed expression.

Panic cut through her desire like a flash of lightning, loud and bright and impossible to ignore, and then vanished without a trace. She stared back into the eyes of the monster in her arms, into the fury, the loathing, and the lust seeping from those clear emerald orbs, and she let go of everything else.

_“You,”_ Natasha snarled back. _“I need you.”_

Loki's fingers clenched Natasha's hip as he thrust himself into her, the rough movement causing her to cry out and arch her back against him. Electricity crackled through her body as he slammed his hips against hers, his cool breath rushing over her neck. Her ankles locked behind him and she clung to him, to this cold creature kindling a kind of fire inside her unlike any she had ever experienced before, her nails once again digging into his skin, clawing at him as shocks wracked her slight frame.

_“Fuck! Loki!”_ Natasha panted between ragged cries. She trembled and writhed against him, his soft groans and strained growls only making her clutch him tighter, scream louder as he picked up the pace of his rough, controlled movements.

A light sweat broke out over her collar and her shoulders went numb from the continual pressure of the hard metal wall. Loki's hand was bruising her hip but she didn't care; he thrust into her, hitting that special, perfect spot that intensified the heat in her core and tore a long, breathless, ecstatic cry from her throat. _“D-don't stop!”_ she forced out, her legs tightening around him as he promptly obeyed, pushing himself deeper into the center of her shaking body.

The pressure between her legs continued to build until she rocked on the precipice of her climax, her head thrown back against the wall and her hands gripping Loki for all she was worth. Her limbs shook and twitched and her breath came in quick ragged gasps until he finally pushed her over the edge, her muscles constricting around him. _“Loki!”_ she cried, repeatedly, as her orgasm took her, wave after wave of intense, burning pleasure rolling through her until he reached his breaking point as well. The god's grip on her tightened and he shuddered, a loud groan escaping him as his other hand dented the metal beside her head even further.

Loki's forehead connected lightly with the wall beside her ear, his hand slipping down the metal to cup the underside of her other leg. They lingered together, unmoving, the sound of their slowing breaths filling the cell. Natasha's heart rate lowered, and the touch of Loki's skin, so much cooler than her own, helped to calm her even further. He was like being wrapped in a light layer of snow, just cold enough to chill but never cold enough to make her want to brush it away. She took a deep breath, her lungs filling with the scent of sweat and something sweeter, like mint and clear, December mornings.

Her eyes slipped closed, and a gentle smile turned the corners of her mouth upward.

Loki turned his head toward her, his lips brushing along her jaw and then over her ear. Softly, he purred, “Does Agent Barton know where you are?”

Natasha's eyes snapped open and she went rigid in his arms. She grabbed a handful of his dark hair and pulled him back so she could get her eyes on him, an icy glare already firmly in place. “No, and if you mention this to him, if you mention him in front of me again—”

“You'll what?” he interrupted, an arrogant smirk crossing his face. “Punish me?”

A cruel edge crept into Natasha's threatening expression. “I won't, but I know someone who will,” she warned.

Loki hissed and pushed her away from him as though she were made of hot coals. She stumbled slightly when her feet hit the floor but stayed upright, her knees shaking as she stared up at him. His features contorted strangely in the fluorescent light and he turned his back, taking a few steps across the cell as his clothes rose from the floor and began to wrap around him.

Natasha's eyes narrowed as she watched him for a few moments, covering himself up as though being exposed made him uncomfortable. She didn't know exactly what she'd seen in his expression before he hid his face, but the longer he remained silent, the longer he went without attempting to belittle or threaten her in turn, the more she realized how seriously he'd taken her spiteful words.

Her brows slammed together and she let out a huff, pushing away the squirming feeling in her stomach as she went to retrieve her suit. She slipped into it as quickly as she could, hastily buckling her gear on and then shoving her feet into her discarded boots. When she straightened up again she saw that Loki still stood with his back to her, his hands balled into fists, his fingers moving tightly back and forth as though he were squeezing something in each palm.

Natasha couldn't tell if his distress was more irritating than it was alarming. Still, as they stood in silence, the god doubtless aware of the fact that she had finished dressing and begun watching him, she felt something deep down give way. She swallowed and let out a heavy sigh, her eyes still narrowed in a dark expression as she began to cross the cell.

Loki's hand shot out as she drew level with him, gripping her firmly around her upper arm. His jaw was clenched and his teeth ground against themselves. Without moving his head he looked over at her, his eyes brimming with resentment.

Natasha looked up at him from beneath her lashes for a long moment, her own expression hard but no longer as cold as it had been. “Just don't mention him,” she muttered at length, redirecting her gaze to the right, past the glass barrier and out into the corridor. Loki's grip slackened, and she quickly made her way out of the cell.

Sooner than she'd like, she found herself crawling once more into the confines of Clint's heavy embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to offer a quick thank you to those who've taken the time to leave comments below, particularly those who indulged my brief moment of insecurity during the last chapter - your encouragement was lovely and very much needed and appreciated! I hope you've enjoyed this latest installment as well!


	14. The Lie

_Natasha lifted her leg straight out, perpendicular to her perfectly rigid body. Her pointed toe touched the hardwood floor once more, and then up came the leg again. Her fingers held the bar with such determination that her snowy knuckles shone bone white beneath the bright studio lights. She watched her reflection in the dark glass, tiny flecks of snow falling, barely visible, on the other side. A tall man with a mustache was instructing her, "Come on, Natasha. Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three-"_

_The world glitched, like the camera lens she had been looking through had been dropped, and then focused in again. The ceiling rose and fell away from her as her fingers wrapped around a cold metal bar, straining as she lifted her chin level with her knuckles over and over again. Someone was shouting, "Come on, Natasha! Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three-"_

_"Come on, Natasha. Enough daydreaming, back to work now," instructed a scratchy voice. Her vision glitched again, and all of a sudden she was watching herself through a television screen. Up went her leg, and down again. Up again, down again. "Count with me, Natasha. Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three-"_

"F-forty-onnne...for-forty-twooo..." Natasha mumbled. She let out a quiet whine and tossed her head to the side, her shoulder pushing weakly against Clint's arm.

_"-responding well to the dosage," said a voice, echoing around the ceiling of her ballet studio as she practiced._

_"Of course, she's strong," echoed another voice. Her vision glitched; the television screen returned._

Natasha struggled, unable to move her hands as though she were restrained, strapped down. She let out another whine, louder this time, her neck tense and her chest beginning to shake with her shallow breaths. Unconsciously she pushed at Clint, one hand driving against his ribs, the other scratching slightly at his chest, her fingers curling and uncurling over his skin.

_"Is she under now?"_

_"Pretty much."_

_"Alright, Natasha. I'm going to count, and I want you to-"_

_"-to offer my condolences on the death of your husband-"_

_"Please, call me-"_

"Alexi," Natasha gasped. Finally she found the strength to roll onto her back, one hand stretched out across the empty side of the bed, scrabbling at the sheets as though she were trying to reach for something just beyond her fingertips.

_Her vision flashed again, the unsteady, staticky scenes that had been rapidly replacing and overlapping each other finally stopping to show a handsome young man with a strong jaw and dark hair, smiling a charming smile. "Call me whatever you like...but my name is Natalia," she heard herself say, but the words felt like they were spoken by someone else._

_The young man's smile widened as he addressed her, his cheeky tone cocky but sweet. "So...Natasha-"_

_"-you are a widow now," said a distorted Khrushchev, his face struggling to show through Alexi's._

"Nnooo," Natasha whimpered, her lips trembling, her head shaking back on forth on the pillow. She kicked at the blankets a little, her whole body beginning to twitch as she pulled at the sheets, unconsciously trying to tear them away, her other hand grabbing onto Clint's arm with her full strength simply because it was there and solid.

_Her vision glitched in and out again, over and over, flashes of ballet performances overtaken by the glint of knives in the dark, hints of movement, still images of red hair tangled in metal apparatuses, caught in bolts, plastered to a pale forehead. Applause sounded all around her, slipping in and out between the sound of explosions and machine gun fire. Blood flowed in rivers, parting in the middle and cascading in velvet curtains down either side of an elaborate stage._

_The lights flared on suddenly and she was sitting in the audience, her wrists and ankles strapped down to the armrests and legs of the theater chair. Something wrapped around her neck and clamped onto her head, and then suddenly metal rings were digging into her face, holding her eyelids open as she stared at the stage, at a red haired girl strapped into a medical chair, her eyes pinned open, mouth slack, drool dribbling over her chin as shadows of ballerinas danced over her zombified features._

Natasha sat bolt upright with a yelp that rang through the room, her pale eyes wide and gleaming in the oppressive darkness, her chest heaving with the force of her terrified breaths. Her heart thundered once, twice, and then she fell to the side on her elbow, oblivious to Clint's frantic, worried questions as a powerful wave of nausea rolled over her. He gave her shoulder a gentle shake and her stomach flipped painfully, bile rising in her throat hard enough to make her whole body convulse.

She scrambled out of bed, clumsily getting to her feet and stumbling out of the room as the world doubled and folded over itself. She rounded the corner, and her hands and knees hit the cold tile of the bathroom floor as soon as she crossed the threshold. The sudden change in position made her stomach contract painfully. A shudder wracked her slight frame, immediately followed by the sickening splash of vomit spilling into the toilet in front of her.

With shaking, barely responsive hands Natasha pushed the seat up just in time for another powerful heave. Her hand crashed down onto the edge of the toilet bowl, her fingers gripping it with white knuckles as her cheek collided with the other ridge of the bowl. The world spun and shifted uncomfortably around her, her eyelids fluttered, and when the next wave of nausea hit, her head would have rolled straight into the pool of retch she'd produced if not for a pair of cool hands that emerged from somewhere out of the darkness.

One pushed the hair away from her face while the other rested on her shoulder, holding her just firmly enough to keep her in her slumped position curled around the toilet. It would squeeze gently or slide along her upper arm when the cold sweat drenching her weak muscles made her shudder, and the other continually held her hair back and away from her face and neck. Several impossibly long minutes passed in this way while Natasha fought with the mentally induced sickness until, finally, after heaving nothing but stomach acid several times, the waves of nausea and vertigo began to pass.

She let out a long, shaky sigh as she released her death grip on the porcelain bowl, immediately slipping back into a pair of waiting arms. They cradled her against their chest, propping her up as gently as possible so as to avoid upsetting her further. Normally this was exactly the kind of thing she didn't want after one of her night terrors, but tonight, after that episode, she didn't have the strength to protest. She barely had the strength to wipe her mouth with the back of her twitching hand.

A few moments passed in silence before Clint quietly asked, "Nat...how do you feel?"

Natasha forced herself to swallow her disappointment at the sound of his voice before she gave a barely audible, pitiful groan. She forced her eyelids to flutter open, but as soon as her gaze met Clint's she wished she'd have saved her efforts. "Been better," she managed.

The corner of his lips pulled upward at that and he gave a weak chuckle, whether out of pity or genuine amusement she couldn't tell. "You can say that again," he said gently. When she didn't respond immediately, he added, "I don't think your dreams have ever made you sick before..."

Natasha closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. "They have, just...just not recently," she forced out. She knew exactly where this conversation was going, and it was not good for her health.

"Can you tell me what you saw?" Clint asked as he leaned down to plant a kiss on her sweaty forehead, as though that would make her more inclined to answer this time.

She let out another sigh before she told him weakly, "Not unless you want me to get sick again."

"What do you mean?"

Natasha let her eyelids flicker open once more. Clint was looking down at her, concern touching every part of his familiar face. He had no idea what he was asking, the kind of road he was trying to go down with her. If he had asked her this question a few weeks ago, before she started to trying to repair the damage in their relationship to keep him under control, then she'd have promptly told him to fuck off about it. Now, however, as she looked into his grey eyes, so full of curiosity, concern, fear, it wasn't nausea that turned her stomach.

"Do you remember how I told you that before they got a hold of me, I used to be a ballerina?" she asked him, deliberately avoiding the name of the organization that had made her what she was. He nodded, and she felt her heart drop as she admitted, "I lied."

Confusion flooded his features. "Okay...then what really happened?" he asked, his tone free of the judgment or accusation that she had been hoping for.

Natasha shook her head. "Nothing," she said at first, getting a hand on his shoulder to pull herself into a sitting position. She couldn't have this conversation slumped against him, depending on him to keep her together. Her head lowered into her hands for a moment and she dug her fingers into her eyes, massaged her temples, wiped the sweat from her cheeks and forehead.

"Natasha?" Clint prompted slowly.

She let out a third long sigh and refrained from pulling her face from her hands. "I mean it...nothing happened. It was always just..." her voiced trailed away and her eyes shut tighter, tight enough to be uncomfortable.

_Damn, this is hard._

"It's all bits and pieces...faces, sometimes...training," she tried to explain, shaking her head as she struggled with the recollections. Everything was so jumbled up in her brain that just trying to think through what was real and what wasn't gave her headaches.

Clint laid his hands on her upper arms again, but when she tensed he had the sense to refrain from pulling her back to him. "Why can't you remember?" he prodded gently.

Natasha shook her head and carefully cleared her thoughts away. She took several deep breaths and reached out to grip the toilet bowl again, just in case. "That bullshit ballerina story...They conditioned me to believe it, to cover up wha—"

Her voice cracked as her stomach heaved again, forcing her to swallow hard and shudder before taking another handful of deep breaths. Tentatively, she continued, "It was p-part of the Black Widow program...Can't think about the brain w-washing w-without—"

Natasha leaned over the toilet once more and dry heaved several times, each painful contraction trailing away in a helpless whimper. When she finished, Clint tried to lean over her, to wrap his arms around her but she swatted him away. Another couple of minutes passed before the vertigo receded once again and she was able to sit up, shaking like a leaf in a storm.

For some reason, Clint was silent. It was strange enough that Natasha felt compelled to look over at him, but as soon as she did she regretted it. He was staring at her, just staring, like one stares at a rain soaked, malnourished puppy cowering in a gutter. Pity filled his grey eyes as he regarded the broken thing sitting before him, and suddenly the assassin experienced another wave of nausea and revulsion that had nothing to do with the Soviet scientists she was still outrunning.

She didn't say another word that night as she got to her feet, brushed her teeth and allowed Clint to take her back to bed. It took all the strength she possessed to even crawl between the sheets again, to let him wrap his arms around her, hold her while he fell back to sleep. That was a mercy she neither deserved nor received for the rest of the night. Instead she was forced to lay awake and stare out into the darkness, to confront the awful truth she'd been trying to burn at both ends for weeks now. Its emerald eyes stared back, as they often did, beckoning to her until she snuck away to answer their call.


	15. Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes mild strangulation.

A low chuckle wound upward from the back of Loki's throat as the agent collapsed against him, her back to his abdomen, her head lolling on his chest. The metal floor was hard and cold beneath him, but he didn't mind. Cold had never bothered him, and he was too focused on the soft, warm creature above him to give anything else much thought.

The god was a bit winded himself, but not nearly as much as Natasha. Her breaths came in hard gasps, chased away by tiny, trilling whimpers, spiraling up into the fluorescent bulbs overhead like tendrils of smoke disappearing in bright sunshine. Each satisfied huff made her shake and tremble, brushed her fiery curls against the underside of his chin. It tickled, but he liked the feeling.

Loki slid one cool hand across her stomach, letting his arm rest lightly around her as she worked on coming down from her carnal high. The other hand he moved up the side of her body, over her rib cage, over one impossibly creamy breast. His fingers brushed along the curve of her collarbone, following it to the top of her shoulder and then back to the base of her neck. He laid his palm over the center of her pale throat, felt the air rushing in and out of her, quickly at first and then gradually slower, almost gently.

He let out a light hum that was at once content and, as usual, amused. "Did you miss me, Agent Romanoff?" he murmured. It was the first attempt either made at conversation since her arrival over an hour beforehand.

"Shut up," she sighed, exasperated. She lifted a hand and let it fall limply against his forearm, the extent of her ability to protest at the moment.

Her efforts only widened Loki's smile. "Why would I? I know how you enjoy the sound of my voice," he teased, taking on his most seductive tone just to bother her. He couldn't see her face, but he could practically feel her roll her eyes at him in response. When she remained silent for the next few moments, he prodded, "You have yet to answer my question."

Natasha released an annoyed grunt, and he failed to bite back his chuckle. "You always find a way to ruin this," she muttered, a bit spitefully.

"Ruin what?" Loki asked genuinely, his brows lofting.

_"_ _This,"_  she insisted, waving a hand absently in the air before she let it fall back onto his shoulder with a light smack.

"I fail to see how I have ruined anything," he went on, although he did realize what she was referring to. Loki tilted his head down, Natasha's curls enveloping the lower portion of his face. She smelled like blood and cinnamon. Letting his lips brush the top of her head as he spoke, he pushed, "You do miss me, do you not? Else you would not seek my...company...as often as you do."

The agent huffed again, although this time it felt, to Loki at least, more defeated than angry. "All of a sudden I have to like you to want to fuck you?" she asked quietly.

Loki's smile evaporated and his fingers twitched against the agent's neck. "Evidently not," he answered coldly. "One begins to wonder if you need like any of the men in your life, or if you merely enjoy them."

Natasha stiffened beneath his hands. "Shut up, Loki," she said again, her voice low and threatening.

"It is a valid point," he threw back at her, venom seeping from his words. "You would throw me to the wolves given half the chance, yet you crawl back here, night after night, desperate to see what only I can show you, what dear Agent Barton knows nothing about—"

Natasha tensed and began to move, but the god was too quick for her. Loki tightened his hand on her neck and rolled, letting her back hit the metal floor. He hovered only millimeters above her, his weight resting on the elbow of his free arm, her throat covered by his palm. Her breath crashed over his face, hot and sweet.

"Do not lie with me and feign remorse for what you have done," he snarled at her, the corners of his scowl twitching darkly, his emerald eyes bright with fury. "You pretend to care for him, to loathe me in order to soothe your pathetic guilt, but your body betrays you. Always it will drag you back to me, wet and wanting for another just as dark and grotesque as yourself."

Loki's fingers tightened, his hand pressing down harder against her throat as he growled, "Tell me that when he beds you, you do not think of me. Tell me that when he touches you, when he caresses your soft skin, you do not long for my hands in his stead. Tell me,  _Natasha_ , that when he barely manages to arch your back and curl your toes it is not  _my_  name you wish to scream into the darkness!"

The fingers of Loki's free hand had curled into a fist upon the floor, his other hand squeezing Natasha's neck just enough to make it difficult to breathe. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and murder was written across his angular features, etched into the wrinkle between his furrowed brows and the creases on either side of his snarl. He glared down at the insolent woman beneath him, willing her to contradict him, to give him an excuse to punish her for not fighting back.

Loki's eyes narrowed as he stared at Natasha, at her round, pale jade orbs. They weren't filled with the fear or the hate that he expected to see now that he really looked at them, but rather with another emotion which he knew all too keenly. Her full lips were parted in an effort to draw in as much air as she could through his grasp on her neck, her chest rising and falling weakly with her shallow breaths. Her blood pumped lightly beneath his fingertips. Her hands rested limply to either side of her head.

His furious expression faltered and he drew his hand back as though she had stung him.

The trickster pushed himself into a sitting position and turned his back on the assassin, his palms flat on the floor, fingers curled slightly as though if he released his grip he might float up to the ceiling. He fought to keep the angry look on his face as Natasha gasped and coughed lightly behind him, but the more he listened to her, the more difficult the facade became.

Several seconds passed before she was able to regain control of her breathing. After that, a palpable silence blanketed the small cell. Loki could feel her eyes on his back but he had no desire to turn and face her, to see what accusing look she wore for him tonight. For three weeks she had been sneaking away to see him, and always their encounters ended this way. He made a comment she didn't like, she threatened him, attacked him. He would retaliate if it would make her angrier. If silence or laughter proved the better weapon, he would respond accordingly. She would leave him with the lie they both so desperately needed to believe.

His only form of entertainment was dangling the truth before her angry eyes, but tonight it didn't feel so entertaining.

"Well?" he asked through gritted teeth, breaking the silence as it approached the one minute mark.

Natasha seemed to hesitate, and then she quietly returned, "Well, what?"

"Tell me I am wrong," Loki said tersely, the words less a request than a demand. It was evident from his strained tone that he meant them, that he wanted her to tell him that his taunts were untrue.

The cell was quiet again for several more, long moments, and then Loki heard the swish of fabric behind him. He realized that Natasha was dressing herself, and he only barely restrained the angry huff threatening to break free. She always made him wait. Whether for another of her visits or an answer to one of his questions, she always made him wait as long as she possibly could before she inevitably gave in to him. At first he enjoyed the game, found her defiance amusing, almost cute because he knew he would always win in the end, but as time went on his victories began to grow sour.

The click of the last buckle sounded throughout the cell, and Loki curled his hands into fists in preparation for the incoming blow. He took a breath and waited, waited for Natasha to tell him that he was wrong, to continue delivering the lie that let her keep coming back to him. Her footsteps echoed faintly around the small room as she crossed to the door, followed by the light hiss that signaled its opening.

"Goodnight, Loki," she called softly, and then she was gone.


	16. Crime and Punishment

“What have you got for me, Romanoff?” Fury asked, his eyes trained out over the dark city skyline.

Natasha stood opposite the director's desk, her hands clasped behind her back, her features carefully blank. Fury had allowed her a lot of leeway as far as her “interrogation techniques” with Loki were concerned, much more than she had originally believed. It had been over a month since he'd called on her for a new report, something which was unusual in and of itself, and now that she was finally here she was getting the impression that something important had happened.

Her chin lofted slightly and she squared her shoulders, despite the fact he hadn't yet turned to look at her, before she explained, “Loki is using us as a shield. He genuinely fears Thanos, and while he hasn't explicitly told me much of anything, it's my belief that he came here to enlist our protection in the event that his trail is picked up.”

“That sounds about like what you told me last time I called you in here,” Fury pointed out, still keeping his back to her.

“It is,” Natasha conceded, “but it's more complicated than that. The terms of Loki's deal were the Tesseract in exchange for Earth. Since he couldn't deliver the Tesseract, Thanos wants Loki instead—”

“We know all this, Romanoff,” Fury interrupted, finally turning to face her. He looked tired, weary even.

It surprised Natasha, but she was careful to keep her professional expression firmly in place as she continued, “Yes, but we don't know when he'll come for him. I believe we've been safe so far because Loki chose the last place—”

“Thanos is likely to look. The scene of the crime. Only an idiot would be stupid enough to hide in the same place he got caught,” Fury supplied.

“Exactly. Thor told us that Thanos is searching the Nine Realms. To our knowledge, he hasn't visited Asgard yet which still leaves us some time to prepare.”

“Prepare for what? This is what you're supposed to be finding out, Romanoff. So far I'm hearin' a lot of basic strategy and no useful information,” Fury pointed out.

Natasha felt her heart rate elevate but she ignored it. “It's been...difficult, gaining Loki's cooperation,” she admitted.

“You got it last time, which is exactly why I put you on this to begin with.”

“I understand, sir,” she continued carefully. She couldn't afford to misspeak at this point. “Loki is under the impression that when Thanos comes to Earth, S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to attempt to trade him in exchange for Thanos's peaceful departure. He refuses to believe otherwise and has been unwilling to work with me because of it.”

“Well, he's not wrong,” Fury said, glancing to the side briefly, his brows furrowing in thought. “Thanos shows up, that's the first thing I'm gonna do.”

Natasha swallowed uncomfortably.

“You're gonna have to convince him otherwise,” Fury added, turning his eye back to her.

“I don't see how that's possible, sir,” she answered truthfully. She'd threatened Loki with that exact scenario enough times to know that any related conversations were a dead end. He simply wouldn't believe her, no matter how far under his skin she knew she'd traveled.

“Figure it out, Romanoff,” the director told her. “You're authorized to use any means necessary. The fate of the planet could be at stake. If there's something Loki's not telling us or if he's got something up his sleeve, we need to know about it.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered automatically. “Is that all, sir?”

“That's all,” Fury nodded, turning back to the skyline. Natasha walked almost to the door before he added, “And Romanoff...if you can't get it done, I'll find someone who can.”

“Yes, sir,” Natasha forced out before she left the office, closing the door quietly behind her. Her eyes slipped closed and she took a deep breath, willing herself to remain composed. The meeting had gone about exactly as she'd expected, but she didn't appreciate Fury's suggestion that she couldn't do her job. Loki had compromised her once and it hadn't stopped her from putting an end to an alien invasion. This, she vowed, would be no different.

The agent crossed to the elevator and directed it to the ground floor. It was getting late, and she figured that it was about time she headed home. Briefly her thoughts flickered back to Loki, where he was undoubtedly waiting in his cell for the next time she would come to him, but she forced them away again. She'd barely spoken to him the last time she'd visited, but the honesty in her silence was more than either of them were prepared for.

The elevator slowed to a stop, and when the doors whispered open Natasha took a couple steps forward. Her eyes were trained on the ground, and the only warning she had before a body smacked straight into her was a pair of black-booted feet only just entering her peripheral vision. She leaped backward immediately and got a hand between herself and the other person, her nerves too taut to consider the fact that it was likely just another agent before his voice hit her ears.

“Whoa, it's just me, Nat,” Clint chuckled, giving her outstretched palm a cheeky slap. “You alright?” he asked when she gave a frustrated sigh.

She shook her head but answered, “Yeah, I'm fine. Just distracted I guess.” She was in no mood to talk about what had just happened or the wire she was currently tiptoeing across.

“What happened?” Clint pressed anyway.

The concern and curiosity in his voice filled Natasha with an overwhelming urge to punch him. “Just reporting to Fury. Still figuring out a few things he said,” she muttered instead, her eyes trained straight ahead.

“I know how that goes,” he agreed sympathetically. “Listen, though—”

He reached out to her, wrapped his arm around her waist. She tried not to stiffen at the touch.

“—I'm headin' out, just got orders. South Africa, probably be gone a little while. I'm glad I caught you, didn't wanna leave without saying goodbye.”

Natasha swallowed and looked over at him, a loving smile stretched across her full lips, putting a sparkle in her pale eyes. “Well, you caught me,” she said sweetly. The irony in her words made her want to vomit.

“Lucky me,” Clint chuckled. His other arm encircled her and he pulled her close. Natasha got her arms around his neck as he leaned her backward, dipping her like an old black and white Hollywood leading lady. He pressed his lips to hers, laying on her the kind of tender, silver screen goodbye kiss that would make any girl wish it would never end.

When the elevator began slowing to a stop and he finally straightened them up again, Natasha's head spun slightly and she found that she couldn't stop blinking. Concern flooded Clint's expression once again and he lifted a hand to her face, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone. “Hey, I'll be back before you know it,” he told her, planting another brief kiss upon her lips. “Love you, Tasha,” he smiled.

Natasha bit her tongue and nodded, buying herself a moment before she forced out, “I love you, too.” Clint's grin widened, and after another brief second he let her go and slipped out of the elevator.

The sound of Natasha's fist hitting the wall echoed around the small metal box.

* * *

Natasha sat curled up at one end of the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest, her wine glass, a little too full, cradled against her bare collarbone. The apartment was quiet aside from the sounds of the dark Manhattan streets drifting in through the cracked window across the room. Clint had been gone for almost a week now, and she'd only left the apartment three times in his absence. All three had been to bring in his mail.

Most people would be going stir crazy, but not Natasha. She needed the reprieve, the isolation.

She turned the page of the fat novel and took a sip from her glass.

_“Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul,”_ she read silently. _“Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had just told a fearful lie—that he would never now be able to speak freely of everything—that he would never again be able to_ _ **speak**_ _of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that—”_

Natasha tore her eyes away from the page. The dull, musty leaves shook in her hand. Her fingertips were bone white, pressing little indents into the pages where she gripped them. Her heart beat uncomfortably fast.

She forced herself to drop the book, paying little attention as it tumbled over her knees and landed splayed across her feet.

Her now free hand flew up to cover her eyes, her brows furrowing almost painfully. Her fingertips gripped her temples and her lips pressed together in a hard line. The wine in her glass lapped at the edges of its vessel in time with her deep, almost steady breaths.

She had been doing so well lately.

A few long minutes passed in silence before Natasha dared move again, before she was confident she'd successfully banished her offending thoughts once more. Slowly she lowered her hand and blinked her eyes a couple of times, loosened the tight grip on her glass.

From somewhere behind her a voice called, “ _Crime and Punishment_ seems a poor choice for one with so much guilt.”


	17. Like Real People Do

Loki's voice cut through the dim apartment, as cold and sharp as a Frost Giant's dagger. He stood, shaded, somewhere between the open kitchen and the living room, his emerald eyes bright with barely bridled rage.  _This_ is what she had been doing? Eight days since last she visited him, and she had all this time been tucked away in her apartment, curled up with a book that, by its title, was only bound to make her wallow all the more in her guilt. The guilt that  _he_ caused her.

No, the guilt she caused herself by returning to him.

The god watched, hands balled into shaking fists, as Natasha leaped to her feet from her place on the couch. Her glass shattered in her hand, soaking the light beige fabric with wine and opening several small cuts across her palm and fingers. In her haste to face him, she kicked over the open bottle of alcohol on the floor, long tendrils of purplish liquid snaking across the hardwood.

As soon as her eyes alighted on him, her expression grew icy. “I'm not in the mood for your tricks, Loki,” she said flatly.

Loki bristled, his lips twitching as he tried to refrain from openly snarling at her. “I am no trick,” he replied harshly, through gritted teeth.

“Right, you're an _illusion_ ,” Natasha corrected herself, her voice seeping with derision.

“Neither am I an illusion.”

She picked up her book, its pages dripping, and flung it across the room.

He caught it before it collided with his face, specks of wine splashing his neck, fresh blood from the Russian carcass. He took no satisfaction in watching her eyes grow wide with surprise and then cast around, searching for his point of entry or, perhaps, a weapon. “What are you doing here?” she asked after a moment, a mild note of confusion showing through the cracks in her angry tone.

Loki let the book drop to the floor with a soggy thud. His fingers curled ever tighter, his short nails pressing into his palms. “Am I not allowed to visit you as well?” he nearly growled.

“You're not allowed out of your cell,” Natasha returned firmly.

“How many times have you told me that I am no prisoner?”

“What are you, then?”

Loki's eyes narrowed. “An unwanted guest,” he spat venomously.

Natasha's eyes narrowed in turn, but her anger appeared to be dissipating. She was watching him carefully now, her tense shoulders straightening, her head tilting curiously to one side. Loki fought to hold her gaze, but after only a few seconds of her piercing inspection he needed to look away. Every muscle in his body was tight, shaking lightly, and his palms were beginning to sting. His lips trembled under the force of his frown.

After almost a minute that seemed an eternity, Natasha took two delicate steps forward. Barely audible splashes sounded where her bare feet struck the growing puddle of spilled wine. “What are you doing here, Loki?” she asked again. This time her voice was measured, cautious.

Loki ground his teeth. That was a very good question, one to which he seemed to have forgotten the answer. “Perhaps I wished to ruin your lovely evening,” he forced out.

“Bullshit,” she returned immediately, a challenge ringing in her voice. Wet splats issued from her feet as she padded across the floor. His heart seemed to quicken with each step she took until it thundered in his ears, relentlessly throwing itself against his breastbone.

Natasha stopped in front of him. She was so close that he could feel her warmth seeping through his clothes. “What happened to you?” she whispered.

She raised a slender hand, her fingertips outstretched to touch his cheek, but Loki slapped them away so hard that she hissed. He flinched at the sound and turned his back on her, his shoulders rising and falling visibly with his forceful breaths. His eyes connected with his reflection in the window across the room and he felt as though he could scream before he threw his gaze in yet another direction. He didn't need to see the sallow tint to his skin, the dark purple tinge clinging to the rims of his eyes, the limp way his black hair framed his face.

His fingers twitched, and after a brief flash of pale green light he looked like his old, perfectly manicured self again.

“No!” Natasha commanded from behind him. She threw her weight behind an attempt to push him, to turn him to face her, but he didn't budge. With a frustrated growl she stalked in front of him, his vision swallowed by her defiant grimace. “No magic,” she told him in that same commanding tone.

A cruel smirk worked its way across his lips. “Have you forgotten me already?” he asked her, his low voice grinding like gravel over the silky sentence.

Fury exploded behind Natasha's pale eyes. “Is that what this is about?” she asked, her tone threateningly even.

The question ripped Loki's smirk away. His eyes narrowed dangerously, a warning etched into every line of his frozen expression.

Through gritted teeth, Natasha pushed, “Did you get lonely without me, or just bored?”

“I would wager you were neither,” Loki threw back at her, his words razor sharp. “Where is Agent Barton? I am shocked to find he ever leaves yo—”

Natasha's slap stole the rest of the sentence from his mouth. He took the blow, licked the blood her cuts trailed from his lips.

“Stop it, Loki,” she growled, her beautiful face, so full of disgust, inches from his own.

“Why?” he demanded, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

The god took a step forward. Natasha stepped back, but he didn't stop his advance. This dance, their dance, was too familiar to him now.

“You know why.”

Natasha's low words froze Loki in place, his mouth open, his silver tongue poised to lash her to pieces. His brows furrowed in mute incomprehension as he regarded the agent, her face turned up to his, her defiant expression beginning to splinter.

“What?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Natasha stared at him a moment longer, something like mingled resentment and longing pooling in her watercolor eyes before she stepped closer to him and crossed her arms over her chest. “You know exactly why I don't want you to talk about him, just like I know why you keep trying to make me. You can play on my guilt all you want, but it doesn't change the fact that you're using it to punish me for going back to him,” she said quietly, a forced edge to her tone.

Loki's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a curt shake of her head before she continued, “You can't talk your way out of this one. You can yell and choke me and cover up the dark circles all you want, but you have 'em for the same reason I do. If you didn't, you wouldn't be here right now.”

For several long seconds the god of lies was silent. Slowly the flame in his green eyes began to flicker out. His hands balled into fists, clenching and unclenching without any real conviction. There was nothing left to grasp onto. For the past three months Loki had been slowly chipping away at Natasha, stripping from her that cold, impenetrable exterior. She hid who she was beneath layers of indifference, repentance, and a sham of a relationship with a man who had no hope of seeing her for what was really there so far below the surface. Like blood-soaked bandages he had peeled them all away, one by one until the raw, inflamed wound was left exposed to the open air.

He hardly realized, after eight days of non-stop pacing in his tiny cell, that all this time she had been holding a fistful of his bandages as well.

There was no lie he could tell, no falsehood he could spin to prevent her from seeing through him now. She'd stolen all of those out from beneath him during her last visit. At length, he asked, “Why have you not returned?”

Natasha broke his gaze, her eyes flickering down to his chest, down to her bare, wine-stained feet. “I knew you wanted me to,” she answered softly.

Loki grit his teeth against the flash of mingled anger and pain her words sent through him. In some sad way he knew what she meant, and he knew why she had to try to stay away. That never made the fury, the jealousy, the truth any easier to bear, nor had it made the nights spent waiting up for her any shorter.

After another long moment he lifted his hands, his fingertips gently brushing her elbows. She shivered but didn't move away. Delicately he laid his palms over her arms, moved them up to her shoulders and then down again. Her eyes slipped closed at his touch, and the corner of his mouth twitched briefly. How he missed her warmth.

The god lowered his head, his nose brushing the tops of Natasha's bright curls. “What are we to do?” he asked her, but the question tasted bitter on his tongue.

Slowly the agent unfolded her arms and pressed her small hands to his chest. Her face lifted once again, and her pale eyes, swimming with an emotion he couldn't recognize, met his. “We could kiss,” she suggested, a vaguely melancholy tone clinging to the edges of her words.

The corners of Loki's lips curved upward into a weak smile. “Kiss,” he repeated gently, not without some amusement. He always assumed that was the one line they would never cross.

Natasha gave a slow nod. “Like real people do.”

Loki slipped one of his arms around Natasha's waist, his fingertips sneaking below the edge of her tank top, brushing the warm skin along the band of her shorts. He trailed his other hand up her arm as she leaned into him, feeling over her shoulder, along the side of her neck. He moved gingerly, as though she might shatter at any moment, as he slipped his palm over her cheek. A few of his fingers lost themselves in her fiery hair.

“Like real people do,” came his whispered recitation.

He trailed his thumb across her soft cheekbone.

The end of her nose brushed his.

Their lips met.


	18. Reindeer Games

"All I'm sayin'—little weird," Tony shrugged. He rolled his shoulders and relaxed a little further into the couch, his eyes trained on the television, thumbs deftly shifting the camera angle of the top half of the screen.

Clint was leaning forward beside him, elbows digging into his knees, a look of concentration on his squashed face that Tony imagined could only ever be mirrored by a man in the process of taking the world's most gloriously difficult shit. It was no contest between the two of them at this point, and had been for some time, but he had to give the clueless kid points for trying.

"How's it weird?" the archer asked after a few moments.

Tony's eyes flicked to the bottom half of the screen and rolled in his skull. "It's a small miracle you're still alive," he remarked offhandedly before he fired his shotgun into the side of Clint's character's head.

"What?" he started as his head burst like a grape in slow motion over his half of the screen.

"Whole time. Right behind the mannequin."

"Why the fuck would you just stand there?"

"See if you'd notice," Tony shrugged, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a brief but gleeful grin as Clint released a loud, frustrated groan.

Nobody could blame him. Tony pulled up the match's count screen as he waited for Clint to respawn, letting out a shameless laugh as he saw that he was up on the archer by almost thirty kills. That was just in the last ten minutes, in Nuketown,  _after_  he turned off the bots.

_Christ, he's bad at this._

"Christ, you're bad at this."

"Shut up, Tony," Clint grumbled, flexing his hands around the controller as his character popped back up on his side of the map. Probably in an effort to distract himself from his own personal massacre, he asked again, "Seriously, how's it weird?"

"Just think about it for a second," Tony said, hopping into the bus in the center of the map. "A couple months ago you didn't know what to do with yourself. Romanoff spends practically every waking minute trying to get under the guy's unusually thick, pasty skin, and you're shouting like a, pardon me, pansy bitch about how she doesn't pay you any attention anymore like we're on the season finale of  _Days of our Lives._  Then, out of nowhere, somebody waves a magic wand and all of a sudden she's snug as a bug between your freakishly short arms and is completely neglecting Operation Holy Diver back there.  _Then_ , in a real twist of fate or whatever that stupid saying is, you get back and now not only is it time to play house with our favorite Norse baby of legend, Princess Anastasia can't take her fat doe eyes off him. It's  _weird._ "

Clint, who was very noticeably  _not_  crouching in the second story window of the house directly across from the bus Tony'd been sitting in, glanced briefly at his friend and then over his shoulder at the balcony. Natasha and Loki sat on the other side of the glass, each bent almost double over opposite sides of a chessboard, statuesque save for their occasionally twitching lips as they considered the lay of their game. Tony almost felt bad for how difficult it was for Clint to see that there was something he  _wasn't_  seeing. Almost.

He switched to his pistol and shot the archer while he wasn't looking.

"Hey!" Clint exclaimed at the sound, turning around to watch his slow motion death for the second time in about as many minutes.

"This is pathetic. I don't wanna play with you anymore," Tony said, rolling his head to the side over the back of the couch, a mock sympathetic tilt to his mouth. "Can you get your girlfriend?" he added.

Clint gave him an annoyed glare but got up off the couch anyway, pausing as he went around it to pointedly state, "You  _are_  wrong. Nat's just doing her job."

Tony simply shrugged in response. If the archer wanted to let a couple pretty eyes and prettier legs cloud his vision, that was his prerogative. As far as the billionaire was concerned, something was going on. It was perfectly likely that Romanoff was just up to her old tricks, using her tried and true method of worming her way into a man's head and getting him to come quietly, or loudly as the case may be, and if that was the situation he could think of no complaints. She was good at what she did, that he'd never deny her. After all, it worked on him once.

Still, he would trust her no further than he could throw her, and she was so slippery he couldn't even lift her off the ground.

Tony was able to set up a new match for he and Natasha by the time the two agents and their lapdog returned, switching to a different class more suited to the type of play in which he knew Natasha liked to engage. He leaned his head back, watching his three guests approach upside down, his eyes flickering between each in turn until the party's only female rounded the end of the couch.

"You should know better than this by now, Stark," Natasha told him, sugar dripping from her tongue at both ends.

"Romanoff, I'm hurt," he said playfully as he picked up the black controller on the glass coffee table and tossed it at her. She caught it with one hand and lowered herself onto the couch beside him. "And here I thought you knew I never learned my lessons."

She smirked at him and shook her head, her amused smile lingering as Clint dropped carelessly down next to her. He laid his arm along the back of the couch, his fingertips resting on her shoulder.

When, after a few moments, His Highness failed to seat himself as well, Tony chanced a glance over his shoulder. Loki stood behind Natasha, his shackled wrists hanging loosely in front of him, eyes distrustfully narrowed in the direction of the television screen.

"What's the matter, Mufasa? Too good to take a seat with the rest of us hero types?" Tony asked, looking back to the game as the match loaded.

A long moment passed, and then Loki returned coldly, "I prefer to stand."

"Suit yourself," Tony shrugged nonchalantly.

_Definitely_   _weird_.

The match began and Tony moved to get into the house he spawned behind. Natasha, meanwhile, started to set up her class. "Spetsnaz. Really, Tony?" she asked flatly, but he could tell that under her nonchalant exterior she wanted to laugh.

"If the shoe fits, right?" he answered, the corners of his mouth curling upward into a dry grin. "Hey, is that hatchet thing true or is that just bullshit you read on the internet?"

"No, it's true."

"So you can do that?"

"You wanna find out?" she returned easily, one eyebrow quirked at him. He chuckled and turned his attention back to the television.

The first kill passed, a bot on the business end of Natasha's knife, and then Loki asked, "What is this?" His voice was low and oddly intense.

Tony almost looked back at him until Natasha passed through the edge of his screen, diverting his attention. It was she who answered the captive god, her tone quite conversational as she told him, "It's a video game, Loki."

"What is a video game?" came his quick response.

"Just a game you play on a screen. It's like a virtual reality thing," she explained. When he failed to respond, she glanced between him and the screen before patiently continuing, "Okay, uh...I guess it's kind of like your illusions. There's a world in the game, and you get to be a guy that you control with this." She lifted the controller briefly. "You interact with people, go on missions until you complete your objective and win."

Loki was silent for another few moments before he inquired, not without some disdain, "And what is the objective of this?"

Tony caught Natasha smirk out of the corner of his eye before she shrugged and answered, "Kill Tony until he quits."

"You're in my house, Romanoff. Be polite," he remarked, tossing a gentle elbow her way. He might have about two whole fucks in his repertoire, but he wasn't stupid enough to play fight the Black Widow.

Not two seconds later a sickening slashing noise erupted from the television and his screen slowed, replaying an image of Natasha knifing him in the back. "I'm sorry. That was terribly rude, wasn't it?" she purred, the corners of her lips curled upward into the kind of slight, satisfied smile of which Tony believed only himself capable.

"You're screen peeking," he was quick to accuse.

"And you're not?" Clint laughed. "You're just mad she's better than you are."

Tony rolled his eyes, but he outright laughed when he heard Loki carefully state, "Is she better than you as well, Agent Barton?"

An odd note underscored the words, some vaguely angry tone folded into the benign curiosity that Tony couldn't quite place. It intrigued him, though, enough that he thought he could drop the old collared dog a bone. "You wouldn't believe. I couldn't take it anymore. It was like watching  _Old Yeller_  over and over and over and over," he said until Clint leaned into Natasha and half pushed her into Tony just to smack him on the back of the head.

Loki's shackles rattled audibly behind the couch.

"Clint!" Natasha complained roughly, elbowing both he and Tony in her efforts to carve out some space for herself once again.

"Sorry, sorry," Clint chuckled, dropping his arm around her shoulders as he straightened up. "On your seven!"

"Shut up," she growled before Tony's lucky and opportunistic shot took her out. " _Мудак,_ " she mumbled under her breath.

Loki chuckled, and Tony immediately erupted, "No fair! Space Balls understands Commie!"

"What'd you call him?" Clint inquired.

"Asshole is the polite term," Natasha supplied. Tony rolled his eyes.

"What's the impolite term?"

"Shitstick."

Tony couldn't help but laugh himself at this point. He might not like Natasha much now, but there was a reason he used to and a reason he was slowly bringing himself to forgive her. The low chuckle that sounded from behind her, however, as well as the irritated glare Clint shot over his shoulder were much more interesting than whatever creative names she could think to call him.

Tony tired of the game relatively quickly. Playing against Natasha was challenging at first, as he could usually come reasonably close to beating her, but after enough matches it tended to turn into one narrow loss compounded on another. The only reason he allowed the massacre to go on as long as he did was to observe Loki's careful interactions with the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents at his side. He never said very much and it was difficult for Tony to keep an eye on him, but he didn't miss a single jingle of the chain binding his cuffs, a single backhanded comment in Clint's direction or, more importantly, any of Natasha's impassive answers to his odd, carefully placed questions.

Normally he sat like a bump on a log beside the female agent. Now, he was making conversation, or his funky Elizabethan idea of conversation, and playing games.

Something was definitely weird.

Over an hour passed, the sun just kissing the tops of the Manhattan skyline, before Tony shut off the console. "Time to get Prancer back to the zoo, huh?" he asked as he slid his clear phone from his back pocket, electing not to see his guests out.

"Finally," Clint said freely. He never pretended to get along with Loki, who released a low chuckle at the agent's word.

"Thanks, Stark," Natasha called over her shoulder as they made their way to the door. "Hopefully next time it won't be just the four of us."

"Don't mention it, Romanoff," he answered absently.

Tony waited until he heard the swish of fabric and the light fall of a footstep and then tilted his head back, sneaking a look at the departed trio. Clint was looking at Natasha, a stupid smile on his face as he wrapped his arm around the back of her waist. Natasha looked back at him, those doe eyes in full force as she let him lead her forward.

Her fingertips brushed Loki's forearm, just above the cuff of his shackles. His fingers twitched toward her, just barely, in response.

A few seconds passed before Tony was alone once again, and he was on his feet as soon as the three departing figures vanished behind the elevator doors. "JARVIS," he called to nothing in particular, "do we still have that decryption program we ran on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secure files last year?"

"Indeed we do, sir," answered the cool, mechanical voice.

Tony pressed the emergency contact on his phone and a picture of Pepper blossomed across the screen. "I think it's time to tune it up, take it for another ride around the block."


	19. Answers

Natasha was unsure how long her eyes had been closed, but she had no intention of opening them again anytime soon. She was far too content where she was, lying on her back and listening to the gentle whoosh of Loki's light breathing. The soft fur from the pelt of some exotic animal or another licked at her bare skin, the cool breeze manufactured in the lungs of her Frost Giant lover swept over her stomach, and the incessant, light buzz of the fluorescent tubes overhead was, for once, quiet.

The incessant, light buzz of the agent's thoughts was, for once, quiet. 

Loki tilted his head, the small movement enough to pull Natasha away from the dream-like state she'd entered and thrust her back into reality. A low hum drifted past her lips while her fingers again took up absently stroking his hair, fine, silk strands slipping carefully over the elegant bend of her knuckles. She would never tell him so, but she loved his long hair.

The god's lips pressed a gentle kiss to the slight ridge of her exposed hipbone before whispering along its curve, the feather light touch of his fingertips grazing upward along her inner thigh. Natasha almost laughed, mistaking the attention for another round of Loki's sudden and uncharacteristic post-coital affection, tentative as it had been that night. It seemed to her that the kiss they shared after he broke into and (according to her) trashed her apartment unleashed an entirely new side of him that she never imagined could have existed. If it was at all possible, this new beast was even more unpredictable, dangerous, and uncontrollable as the monster she'd grown so accustomed to dealing with.

The pressure of a kiss to the crease of her thigh told her that this new beast was also hungry.

The touch sent an unexpected shock through the center of her body, pulling a surprised whimper from the back of her throat as her eyes sprang wide open. She gave Loki's head a light shove, just enough to dislodge him from his current position. “You need to stop now, really,” she told him as firmly as she could manage, lifting her head enough to get an eye on him before it fell back against the comfortable layer of soft fur. She was proud of her stamina and endurance in all areas, but he was insatiable.

“And if I do not want to?” Loki purred in response, utterly ignoring her words and once again lowering his lips to her skin.

Natasha huffed and punched him in the ear, not too hard but hard enough. “Sounds like a personal problem to me,” she retorted sharply.

Loki's gleaming eyes narrowed at her as he sat up and rubbed his offended ear but she simply cocked an unimpressed eyebrow at him. Evidently he realized that his dramatics would get him nowhere with her, so he abandoned the tactic and instead lowered himself onto his elbow beside her. His free hand slid over the bottom of her rib cage, settling into the curve of her waist before he pulled her closer to him. “And here I believed you had finally warmed up to me,” he said, his low voice gravelly with irritation as he leaned down toward her.

Seeing exactly the angle he thought to attack her from now, Natasha lifted a hand and planted her palm firmly over his mouth. “I wasn't warm, I was hot, and now I'm not,” she stated carefully, as though she were speaking to a slow child. “We have to stop. I can't—”

Her voice broke off suddenly, the words dead leaves circling in her throat.

Loki withdrew his arm from around her and gently pulled her hand from his face. “You can't stay,” he finished for her.

Natasha tasted the bitterness of his words on her own tongue. She shook her head once, slowly, a couple of curls slipping over her bare shoulder.

The god lowered her hand to her stomach. His movements were measured, geometrically calculated as he let it rest and then withdrew his touch. He pushed himself into a sitting position and turned his face toward the glass, his brows furrowed slightly, his wrist poised over his drawn up knee.

The assassin rose up on her elbows. Her watercolor eyes explored the curve of his spine, the slight dip between his shoulder and bicep, the line of his set jaw and the hollow place where his neck met his chest. He was so still, so pale that he might have been chiseled from pure ivory and she wouldn't have known save for the gentle, barely perceptible rise and fall of his shoulders.

Sitting upon that strange pelt, beneath the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights, there was a poetry about Loki that ran so deeply, so frenzied she feared she may drown in it.

Natasha tore her eyes away from him and sat up, her heart stomping out an uneven rhythm in her chest. She dug her fingers into the corners of her eyes and ran a careful hand through her hair before glancing briefly about the room. A sudden desire to be clothed overtook her, but the nearest articles all belonged to Loki. That mightn't have mattered except that he refused to wear anything other than that complicated leather armor of his. Her eyes flickered back to the man beside her, still staring enigmatically out of the glass. Silently she pulled the end of the pelt over her lap and crossed her arms over her chest, hugging it to her.

“Loki,” she began, her husky voice quiet, reluctant to intrude upon his silence. He neither answered nor turned to look at her. “Loki, we need to talk...about Thanos.”

The god's brows knit further together and the corner of his lips twitched. He didn't turn further away from her, but his gaze lowered down to the floor as he muttered, “I thought it my responsibility to ruin your visits.”

Natasha swallowed and forced herself to remain unmoved by the stinging spite in his voice. “You've been here for over three months. You need to give me something,” she said carefully.

“Do I not already give you enough?” he retorted a little too quickly, a little too defensively.

Her eyes narrowed and her lips parted slightly, his words stinging her in that special place where hurt and anger were inextricably intertwined. “You won't be giving me anything if you don't talk,” she answered, making no effort to blunt the biting quality of her tone.

Loki produced a noise that straddled the line between a huff and a growl as he pushed himself to his feet. He took a couple steps away from her, gaining some distance before he twitched a few fingers. “I grow weary of your threats, Agent Romanoff,” he said coldly as his clothing circumvented Natasha to begin wrapping around him once more.

“It's not a threat, Loki.”

Slowly the god turned to her, just enough to meet her gaze with suspicious, veiled eyes.

Natasha stared back at him for a long moment and then gave a defeated sigh, her strong posture deflating as her shoulders sank forward. “Fury told me,” she said quietly. Her disobedience twisted her insides like the turn of a dull knife. “You're Earth's bargaining chip when Thanos shows up whether you cooperate with us or not. He's convinced you know something that can help us, and if I can't get it out of you, he'll...quote, 'find someone who can.'”

The final piece of Loki's armor curled around him, and stillness settled over the cell like a thick, woolen blanket. Natasha watched, mute and unmoving, as his leaden gaze dropped. An array of extraordinarily subtle emotions she couldn't identify flickered across his angular features, his bright eyes twitching around the same spot on the floor. Several long moments slipped by before he looked at her again, and when he did she needed to force herself not to recoil at the cold fury crystallizing behind his emerald orbs.

“And you tell me this now...so that I will cooperate,” he stated slowly, his voice dangerously even.

“Yes,” Natasha answered quietly, uncertainly, but by the time the word left her lips he was already continuing.

“Now, after all this time, after—oh, but I have underestimated you yet again, the infamous  _Black Widow_ .” The venom in his words dripped across the metal floor as he stepped over to her. The assassin, curled inside the sleek black pelt, was dwarfed by the god's imposing figure as she craned her neck to look up at him.

“Loki, what are you—” she tried to ask, but again he cut across her.

“You are brilliant, fearless. I suppose your director encouraged you to use any means necessary to gain my trust, did he not?” the god went on, his serrated voice deadly. The light of recognition burst behind Natasha's eyes. “I must admit, in all my years, none have ever made so great a fool of me as you. I encourage you to revel in the thrill of your achievement while you can, because I will not allow anyone to—”

“You have got to be  _shitting_ me!” Natasha half growled, half shouted. Her forehead dropped to meet the heels of her palms and she released a tense noise of frustration through gritted teeth. She sucked in a large breath as her fingertips dug into her hairline, and when she resurfaced and snapped her gaze again onto Loki, she couldn't even take the proper amount of pleasure in his stunned, slack jawed expression.

“You stupid, arrogant, batshit, selfish little prick!” she forced out, only barely controlling her volume as she held the pelt around herself with one hand and climbed to her feet. He still looked down on her, but she acted as though she were the giant between them as she continued, “Newsflash, Loki: I am the  _only_ person on your side. You have burned every single bridge on this planet, and there is not one human in the world who wouldn't hand you over in a  _second_ if it meant getting to live another day. Ever since you showed up here, you've given me every reason in the world to just give up on you, to tell Fury you're a lost cause and to have fun trying to torture anything out of you. You said it to me yourself once. I have a comfortable home, a loving partner, and a list of throats to cut, but here I am. With  _you._ You wanted to know why. Tell me, Loki. Why am I still here?”

Natasha's defiant, challenging stare burned straight through Loki, and she watched with a certain amount of satisfaction as his initial anger at her insults melted away. He looked back at her, and all at once he seemed to shrink in on himself. His lips released their snarl and pressed lightly together, and an emptiness gathered in his eyes that chilled the assassin more intensely than the touch of his icy hands ever could.

He had no answer for her.

She felt her own rage begin to falter. Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she threw the pelt at his chest and turned away from him. “Wonder if there are more stupid powers you didn't tell me about,” she muttered to herself as she stalked to where her crumpled clothes lay strewn about. Her fingertips snatched a pair of red lace panties from the floor and sorted them out.

“If I did tell you, would you have returned?”

The god's murmured words crept over her, freezing Natasha in place as she bent to slip her underwear on. Her breath caught briefly, her stomach turned, and her heart seemed to contract in an odd way, as though a hand had reached into her chest and given it an unexpected squeeze.

Blinking the uncomfortable feelings away, she stepped into her panties and softly replied, “I guess you'll just have to trust me.”

Quiet settled over the cell once more, broken only by the rustling of Natasha's clothes as she dressed. She moved slowly enough, slower than she might have otherwise, although by the time she was sliding her t-shirt over her chest she didn't fully understand why. Loki wouldn't speak, wouldn't give anything up now that he knew definitively that there was no point. It wasn't like she had a plan to appease Thanos without giving him up or any leverage to change Fury's mind. If he stayed on Earth, he would be handed over whether or not he chose to help her. In the end, he had nothing to gain and an eternity, give or take a few more less lonely nights, to lose.

Natasha shrugged into her light leather jacket and pulled on her shoes before she straightened up and crossed the cell. Dregs of disappointment clung to the edges of the empty look she wore, like thinning blood circling a damp drain.

“Tell your director,” Loki murmured as Natasha's fingertips paused on the keypad beside the door, “that he searches for the Infinity Stones.”


	20. Doubt

_ “All I'm sayin'—little weird,” Tony told him as he strutted across the room. _

_ Clint leaped to his feet from the tan suede couch and chased after him. The man was only a few feet away, but as soon as he crossed the glass threshold to the balcony, the archer could progress no further. He pounded his fist on the glass and demanded, “What do you mean? What's weird?!” _

_ Tony turned to face him, a pitying smirk splayed across his carefree features. “What's the matter, Legolas? Can't see what's right in front of you?” he teased before the faceplate of his armor crashed down and obscured his expression from view. _

_ “What?! What's right in front of me?!” Clint screamed through the glass, but it was no use. Tony leaped off the building and disappeared. _

_ Clint released a frustrated shout and smashed his fist into the glass with all his strength. The blow didn't so much as make a crack. He pushed himself away and turned around again, but the familiar room had disappeared. Nothing but darkness loomed ahead, save for a black and white checked floor that stretched as far as his eye could see. The tiles were massive, and it was only when he stepped onto a gargantuan white square that he realized he was not alone. Tall black and white figures stood over him, intricately carved living statues that bent and twisted and moved of their own accord. Each one seemed the size of Stark Tower, but he could see the ugly snarls contorting their disfigured faces in sharp relief, even from the floor. _

_ Clint tried to back away, to get off the board of the huge, terrifying chess game, but the solid darkness at his back pushed him forward each time he attempted to recoil. He glanced around frantically in every direction, searching for a safe path to take, but everywhere there towered one of those horrible, grimacing pieces. _

_ A soft, warm light began to pulse faintly in the distance, in the center of the field of breathing stone warriors. Clint's eyes were drawn to it, and he found that he was desperate to know what it was, to see if perhaps it had come to rescue him from these things that would surely kill him if he went anywhere near them. After the space of a heartbeat that lasted nearly an hour, one of the hideous, massive pawns slid away from its square and offered him a glimpse of his savior. _

_ It was Natasha. She wore a dress that looked as though it were made of liquid gold, flowing easily with her movements. She twirled and bent, each movement willowy, graceful, although whatever music she danced to, Clint could not hear it. He watched her for only a moment, and then she spun on tiptoe and began to dance away from him. The warm light moved with her, further into the darkness, and suddenly he was possessed with a powerful urge to run. _

_ He took off after her, as quickly as his legs could carry him across the massive battlefield. Always she remained ahead of him, lighting the way safely through the dark, but she was never fully out of reach. They seemed to fly over the board, the black and white tiles blurring into a steady sea of grey beneath their feet, but it felt like an eternity before she finally spun to face him again. _

_ Clint wasn't prepared for the sudden stop and smacked right into her. They fell over the edge of the board and into the darkness, and his heart leaped up into his throat. He was sure they would fall forever, but barely a moment later they landed on something soft and...bouncy. Their bed. _

_ Natasha giggled beneath him, the tinkling, musical sound echoing all around the borderless room. Her copper curls were thrown all about her, shining and shimmering in the golden glow of her dress. A playful light danced in her eyes, and one of her hands lifted to glide through Clint's hair. The move pulled at the corners of his lips, and without thinking he bowed his head to claim hers in a long kiss. _

_ No sooner had his eyes closed, had their lips met than he found himself strapped down into what felt like an electric chair, the rough wood scratching his skin. His wrists, ankles and head were all restrained, leather straps biting into his flesh each time he struggled. Nothing held his eyes open, but he could not blink no matter how hard he tried.  _

_ Suddenly a harsh echo sounded through the black space and a single spotlight exploded, dazzling him briefly before his eyes were able to focus on the scene. Natasha lay sprawled across their bed, much the same as she had been only a moment ago, her glowing dress flowing like molten gold over the edges of the mattress. Clint's heart began to race and he started to wonder whether maybe she was dead before movement at the edge of the light caught his eye. A dark figure crawled onto the bed, and if it looked any less human, the archer may have thought it an animal for the predatory way it moved toward his girlfriend's inert body. _

_ He watched on, opening his mouth to call out to Natasha, to warn her, but his throat would produce no sound. The figure continued to move up the bed until it reached the apparently unconscious woman, and then a white hand, pale as a corpse, slipped out from beneath the fold of the cloak it wore. It slithered along Natasha's leg, over her hip and then wrapped around the back of her waist before it lifted her from the bed. Her head and arms dangled limply from her upraised torso, her bare neck and chest exposed above the low sweetheart line of the dress. _

_ The figure's other hand appeared from within the darkness and reached over Natasha. Its long fingers slid up her forehead and disappeared into her red curls. The hand moved through her hair and then slid along her neck, over her collarbone, and then, almost painfully slowly, came to a stop in the center of her chest. _

_ As soon as it reached its destination, the dark cloak it wore dissolved into a black mist, spiraling up and away into the shadows. Clint tried to struggle, his limbs shaking violently against his bonds, but he couldn't break them or shift the chair an inch. Loki turned his head toward him, that horrible, awful, grin, so full of malice and chaos, stretched across his mouth. “I see why you love her so, Agent Barton,” he said, his low voice a deadly whisper through the darkness. “She has heart.” _

_ The word slipped into the shadows and Natasha rose up of her own accord, her upper body lifting as though it were pulled by invisible strings. One of her hands fell on Loki's shoulder and the other moved to slide over the side of his face, brushing his black hair gently backward. She leaned forward, closer to him, infinitely closer until Clint felt sure she would kiss him, and then she tilted her head to look back at him. _

_ He tried to scream again, tried to break free of his restraints as Natasha's beautiful, tinkling giggles echoed around the room. He tried to call out to her, to curse Loki, to look in any other direction in the world. He begged for the light to disappear, for the darkness to overwhelm him once again, but it was no use. Her unblinking crystal blue eyes gleamed mercilessly through the black expanse that separated them, bright and dead beneath the lone spotlight. _

Clint's eyes snapped open and his body gave a powerful shudder. Faded impressions of tangled white limbs writhed across the surface of his glassy orbs. Cold sweat clung to his forehead, temples and neck, and the open window sent a chill across his washed out skin. He panted for several long moments, darkness spilling into and out of his lungs until the comforting blanket of reality dropped over him once more.

_ Just a dream, Barton. _

He thought he'd shaken that miserable excuse for a god from his sleep for good months ago.

Giving a heavy, tired grunt, Clint rolled his head on his pillow and reached for Natasha next to him. His fingertips moved to brush her shoulder, just to reassure him of her presence, but they swept through solid, empty shadows.

“N'tasha?” the archer muttered. He propped himself up on his elbow and felt across the mattress beside him. It was vacant save for his girlfriend's pillow laid vertically beneath the comforter.

Clint's heart began kicking in his chest. It was probably nothing; Natasha had had trouble sleeping ever since he'd known her, and it wasn't uncommon for him to wake up in the middle of the night and find her out in the living room. Usually it was the nightmares, but occasionally she suffered from insomnia as well. These things he knew, but he hauled himself out of bed to check just the same.

Memory guided him around the bed and to the door, his hand striking the frame and feeling down for the knob before he gave it a deft turn. The portal swung outward, creaking gently on its hinges. Ghosts of the streetlights outside lingered over the living room furniture. Everything was tinted blue, and the shadows threw the room into cutting relief. Clint's burning senses devoured the scene: the faded color; the muffled, incomplete silence; the faint scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and some lighter aroma he couldn't place.

The unbreakable stillness of a place utterly devoid of life.

“Natasha?” he called tentatively as he turned to look across the apartment. The secondhand light wasn't strong enough to reach the other room. His eyes were drawn instead to the faint, green illumination of the oven clock.

3:26 a.m.

His call was met with more oppressive silence. His brows furrowed in concern and he rounded the corner to check the bathroom as well but the door was already open.

He was alone.

Clint's thoughts deserted his mind as he turned and walked swiftly back into the bedroom. The light from the living room revealed the path to the bedside table, and as soon as he reached it his hands shot out for his phone. He unplugged it and called Natasha, holding his breath as the phone rang once, twice, six times before it rolled to voicemail. His features contorted briefly before he hung up and tossed the thing on the bed, thought better of it, and then reached out for it once more.

Storm clouds gathered in his silver eyes as he concentrated on the phone. His thumb traced the edge of the screen as he stared at the flat, black surface, willing it to light up, vibrate, somehow communicate to Natasha that she needed to call him back. Something was wrong, he could feel it. He knew she was grounded. Until she was taken off that stupid, pointless Loki assignment, Fury wouldn't send her anywhere else, give her anything else to do. She couldn't be on a mission, and it wasn't like her to just leave in the middle of the night without saying anything. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones, a light hum grinding his nerves raw and shaking his heart in his chest.

More than a minute passed before a quiet, helpless growl left the archer's throat. His hand contracted around the phone and gave it a futile squeeze before he snatched a t-shirt from the floor and threw it over his head. He moved back into the living room, switched on the lamp on the end table, and lowered himself onto the edge of the couch.

The ghosts vanished in the low light, leaving the archer and his thoughts alone save for the neglected, wine-soaked copy of _Crime and Punishment_ left out on the coffee table. A siren sounded a few blocks away, echoed by several more just seconds later. The air conditioner went quiet.

Clint turned the phone over in his hands and waited.

* * *

The tumbler turned over in the lock, the sound pealing like thunder through the archer's ears. He'd been waiting for nearly an hour, contemplating what he would say when Natasha finally returned, but now that she had he found he was unable to make himself stand to look at her. For so long worry had sealed his thoughts away, but by the time the front door swung inward and footsteps whispered across the threshold, doubt had let them all loose again.

_“All I'm sayin'—little weird.”_

“Clint? What are you doing up?”

Natasha's low, surprised voice curled around him, rosy thorns twisting and pricking his insides. He listened as she closed the door behind her, threw her keys into the bowl on the small table in the entryway. Her shoes came off one by one, little thuds sounding as she kicked them into the wall. A black patch permanently darkened the drywall above the molding because of that habit, but she never stopped doing it.

“Hey, what's going on?” Natasha asked when he failed to respond. He heard her cross the hardwood and come to stand behind the couch.

It was only then, when he could feel her warmth behind him but not the touch of a hand on his shoulder, fingertips in his short, blonde hair, that Clint hauled himself to his feet. He revolved slowly on the spot, phone still in one hand, jaw set and brows knit together. His eyes alighted on hers briefly before they swept over her, her gently curled hair gathered over one shoulder, the edge of a familiar red lace bra peeking over the hem of her black tank top, the outline of a cell phone in the front pocket of her tight jeans.

“I called you. You didn't pick up,” he told her, shaking the phone in his hand.

Natasha's fingertips automatically pressed hers through the fabric of her pocket. “Must have left it on silent,” she said, confusion flickering across her soft features.

Clint didn't respond. She never left her phone on silent...unless she was working.

“Clint—you're being weird. What's going on with you?” Natasha pushed, her delicate brows twitching, suspicion swirling in her pale eyes.

“Where were you, Nat?” he asked, the words tumbling out of his lips before he could stop them. His doubts were chomping at the bit, straining against the reins barely remaining in his grip.

Natasha didn't hesitate before she answered, “Up on the roof. I couldn't sleep, didn't wanna wake you.”

Clint ground his teeth. “Are you sure that's where you were?”

“Yeah, I generally know where I am most of the time,” she said. She sounded defensive, and sure enough there went her arms, crossing over her chest. It was her way of fortifying herself. That he knew after years of watching her do it under so many different circumstances.

“Why'd you go up on the roof? You never do that,” Clint pushed. He expected her to get angry with him any minute. He knew she didn't like to be questioned like this, but he needed her to convince him that she was telling the truth.

Something in his voice must have given him away because Natasha' expression softened almost immediately. She relaxed and the suspicion flew from her eyes. His own followed her as she walked around the couch, as her arms uncrossed and she reached out to him. Her palms connected with his chest and moved up, resting between his neck and shoulders. “Clint,” she said quietly, a careful undercurrent of concern in her tone, “what's the matter with you? You know I wouldn't lie to you.”

“No, I know you do lie. That's why I'm asking.” Clint kept his tone as hard as he could, but he couldn't control the cracks that marbled through the veiled anger. It was all he could do to keep his hands at his sides, to refrain from touching Natasha, from letting her too close. If he did that, he knew he would let her convince him of anything she wanted to.

Unfortunately, she knew that, too. “Okay, yes, I lie to you,” she admitted gently. “There are a lot of things I don't want you, or anybody, to know about me, so when you ask, I make something up. Something that's...easier to swallow, for both of us. That's why I let you believe that ballerina story. I always wanted to believe it, too.” She inched closer, her round, jade eyes piercing his. “I went up to the roof tonight because I had...I had a dream about Alexi. I didn't want to talk about it, I just—I just needed some space,” she explained. She swallowed. Her lips trembled, almost imperceptibly.

Natasha leaned a little closer. Her scent, warm cinnamon and some lighter, strangely familiar aroma he couldn't place, filled Clint's lungs.

He took the bait. “You said that name once the other day, in your sleep. Who is it?” Clint asked carefully.

Natasha cleared her throat. “He was my husband. He died...a long time ago.”

Clint's breath left him in a rush and he broke her hypnotic, melancholy gaze. Something flickered in his chest, something tiny and desperate to take form. After a long moment he looked back at her, silver seas raging behind his tired eyes. “I'm sorry, Nat,” he managed.

“Don't be. Like I said, it was a long time ago,” she replied softly. The corners of her lips curved upward, just barely.

Before he could stop them, Clint's hands lifted and rested over her hips. Natasha closed the short distance between them. She leaned into him, and the feel of her fitting against him so perfectly almost made his doubts seem silly, insignificant compared with what he knew he felt for her. He wanted to speak, to question her further, to shake the lingering shadows from his mind, but as her arms wrapped around his neck, he simply couldn't force the words out.

The beautiful, deadly creature in his grasp stood on tiptoe to plant a gentle kiss on his chin. “I'm sorry I worried you,” she said, her smile widening.

He shook his head, the corner of his own lips twitching briefly. “It's fine, I just thought—I just wondered where you went,” he told her a bit lamely. He tried to play off the slip of the tongue as best he could, shrugging casually and wrapping his arms all the way around her, but Natasha's subtlety had always far outstripped his own. He could maintain a cover with some time to prepare, but in his off hours, with the woman he loved, lying didn't come naturally to him.

“What did you think?” Natasha was quick to ask anyway. One of her eyebrows quirked and her pale eyes were suddenly full of questions.

Clint's jaw slackened when she caught him, but not a moment went by before he shrugged again and gave a somewhat awkward half-smile. “I dunno, I thought—I thought maybe you went to see Loki again,” he chuckled. The laugh sounded forced, even to him. It was strange; just a few minutes ago this was the only thing he wanted to talk about, but now bringing it up seemed like a huge mistake.

Natasha looked damn put off by the mention of the god, but she didn't pull away from him as she told him, “Definitely not. We've already established a rapport so there's no reason for me to keep making late night visits as long as he keeps talking.”

That tiny flicker of hope in Clint's chest strengthened at her words. It returned warmth to his heart once again and pushed a light, relieved sigh from his lungs. That was exactly what he'd needed to hear. “Good. Let's keep it that way,” he said with a small, genuine smile. She rolled her eyes a little, probably reflecting on the arguments they'd had about this very subject, but she grinned along with him anyway.

“C'mon, let's go back to bed,” she murmured. One of her hands wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled him down for a brief kiss. She leaned away quickly and turned her face to stifle a yawn in his shoulder before she added, “I'm tired.”

“Alright, go on,” he laughed, dropping his arms from around her. Natasha made for the bedroom while he bent to shut off the light before he followed after her. He stood in the threshold while she changed into her pajamas, unable to stop his eyes from caressing her creamy skin as her clothes fell away. They'd been together for four years already, and still she was just as beautiful to him as the day she first wandered into his crosshairs.

When Natasha was set for bed, Clint switched off the light and made his way over to his side. He climbed in beside her, a grin stretching over his mouth when she sidled up to him and laid her head on his chest. It had been a while since she'd been this affectionate; romance was never really her style. He chose not to look a gift horse in the mouth at that moment and instead slipped an arm around her, his hand gliding gently back and forth over the curve of her waist. “'Night, Nat,” he said quietly before he planted a kiss on her forehead.

“'Night, Clint,” she answered, giving his chest a couple gentle pats.

The archer's eyes slipped closed, his mind finally at ease once again. _Just paranoid,_ he thought to himself as he felt his muscles begin to relax. He listened to Natasha's light breathing, felt her heart beating against his side. All memory of the dream that had jarred him awake not so long ago fled into the darkness. After a few minutes, he felt sleep's outstretched fingers begin to brush past him.

Natasha's phone chirped from her bedside table.

 


	21. A Child at Prayer

The elevator doors whispered open, revealing the familiar, dark corridor beyond. Natasha's pale eyes fixed on the bright halo that marked its end, the brutal angelic light that led her further and further into the caverns of temptation. It was a dangerous place, filled with deceptive traps and lures meant to strangle her in the shadows. What she couldn't piece together was why exactly, in her effort to drag herself out of that place, she found herself venturing ever deeper over and over again.

She took a deep breath and raised her chin, held her head up high as she stepped out onto the concrete floor. The soles of her soft boots emitted barely audible, whispered clicks as they connected with the hard surface. The sound of her blood rapidly pumping in her ears drowned them out.

She walked for miles, eyes lingering on the floor as she carried herself to Loki's cell. The gentle swish of fabric told her that he was rising to his feet even before he softly called, "Agent Romanoff...I would not have expected you so early. Could it be that you miss me after all?"

Natasha's stomach churned. Her jaw clenched.

Footsteps echoed around the small cell. The faint sound grew louder, louder, until it ceased.  "Natasha?" Loki murmured. Her eyes were still on the ground, but by the softness and the nearness of his voice she imagined that she could reach out and touch him, feel his lips beneath her fingertips, the familiar, tough texture of his leather armor beneath her hands.

Natasha looked up, and her vision immediately filled with the curious gaze of the god. He stood barely an inch away from the glass, hands clasped behind his back, his body bent slightly at the waist in order to examine her more closely. His shimmering green eyes explored the delicate, impassive curves of her face in a determined bid to extract some motive, some emotion from them, but she knew he would find nothing.

After a lifetime, he quietly inquired, "Would you like to come inside?"

The agent's head tilted to the left, a few bright locks spilling forward over her shoulder. "This isn't a social call," she said coolly. Loki straightened up, mistrust caressing his sculpted features. Natasha tried to ignore it as she added, "I need more information about the Infinity Stones."

"I believe we have an arrangement for this, do we not?" he was quick to point out. He wasn't wrong; for the past couple of weeks, each time Natasha made to leave after sneaking away to see him, he would throw her some new useful scrap to bring back to Fury. She never asked him why, after all this time, he chose to cooperate with her. In some sad way, she already knew the answer.

Somehow it made what she was here to do even more difficult.

Slowly, Natasha shook her head. "That's not how it works anymore."

The corners of Loki's mouth twitched. His eyes narrowed slightly. "I beg to differ," he replied, his low voice boiling.

Natasha's shoulders stiffened. She raised her chin up to the god a bit more squarely and coldly answered, "I'm sorry, Loki. Playtime's over."

"You're  _sorry_." He spat the word out, flecks of spittle stinging the glass barrier. "You know not the meaning of the word. This is about the hawk. I can smell him on you. Always I can smell him," he growled. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Natasha swallowed her heart and replied flatly, "This...thing...has gone on for too long. It was a mistake to—"

Loki's threatening growl consumed the rest of her words. One of his white hands shot through the suddenly nonexistent glass barrier and seized her roughly by the collar of her catsuit. Her hands closed around his wrist and her eyes flew wide before he lifted her clear of the ground and yanked her straight into his cell. She barely had time to draw breath before the newly reinstated glass stood unforgiving at her back and Loki's menacing snarl hovered mere millimeters away from her shocked features. His icy knuckles dug into her throat.

"Do not tell me that I am your  _mistake!_ " he ordered. "This is not regret! This is cowardice! I suppose he grew suspicious, did he not? Now you are threatened with the consequences of your actions so you seek to run from them—"

"Sound familiar?" Natasha growled over him. One of her hands still clutched his wrist. The other planted itself firmly against his chest. The toes of her boots scraped the metal floor.

Loki gave a rough, mirthless laugh but didn't abate. "Deflect to your heart's content, little spider, but you and I will always know the truth," he told her, his harsh voice clawing its way into her ears.

Natasha's features contorted into a powerful glare, but he seemed not to notice. The fingers gripping her suit loosened, the thick fabric sliding easily out of his grasp. His cool touch dipped below her collar and slid over her neck, electrifying each nerve it brushed. Slowly his hand disappeared into her hair, her red locks winding around his fingers until they contracted into a firm, but not entirely violent, fist.

The god pressed in closer to her. His chest connected with hers, and Natasha pulled in a quiet, shaky breath, her lips pressed into a hard line as she held Loki's unblinking, burning stare. His free hand slid along the side of her rib cage and settled in the curve of her waist, the force of his grip curling his fingertips against her body. One of his knees slipped between hers, and the sudden invasion forced her eyes to close and her slight frame to give a noticeable, uncontrollable shudder.

Natasha felt Loki's nose brush hers, felt his cool breath crash over her skin. Her hands slid down his chest and her fingers curled around the straps of his armor. Briefly she couldn't help but recall the first time he'd had her up against the glass like this in nearly the very same position; she knew what she'd done then, what she should do now, but instead she found herself whispering, "What truth?"

A low chuckle twisted in Loki's throat. His hand slipped a little lower over the curve of her hip and he pressed still closer to her, pinning her firmly to the glass. She felt his lips touch hers so lightly that it made her breath catch and her eyelids flutter. "Deep down," he said softly, his leg grinding delicately against the core of her body, "no matter how vehemently you deny it, you  _want_  this."

Natasha's heart threw itself against her breastbone and her lips parted slightly, a weak protest poised in her throat. It fought for release even as Loki pulled her into a heated kiss, one that quickly muddied her senses and sent violent chills up her spine. His tongue swept the cavern of her mouth as his fingers tightened in her hair, and suddenly that desperate protest shattered into a low, helpless whimper.

She gave in to him like she always did, and he crashed over her as powerfully and hungrily as the sea. His lips never ceased devouring hers, not for a moment, as his hand slipped once again out of her hair and down her neck. Icy fingers traveled over her chest and found the zipper of her suit, at once pulling it down and exploring the warm, pale flesh underneath. His light, cool touch, so tentative that those fingers might never have ever taken this route along her body, was kerosene to the waiting spark smoldering just below her skin.

Her belts came undone of their own accord, allowing Loki to continue his slow, careful process of splitting apart the suit. As soon as the zipper reached its end, his fingertips slipped below the edge of the fabric and began to travel gingerly over her lower body. It was only when his snowy touch met the heated, sensitive flesh between her legs that he pulled his lips away from hers, dragging them across her cheek as she pulled in a low, unsteady breath.

The leather straps beneath Natasha's hands fell away. Her palms met Loki's bare stomach and quickly slid up to his neck, her fingers curling in his dusky hair as his traced delicate, tantalizing circles around her aching clit. Her tremulous whimpers broke over his ear, one after the other, and his breath began to grow heavy between the firm kisses and gentle bites he laid beneath her jaw.

She felt the now quite familiar sensation of her suit melting away from her shoulders, parting over her arms like thin, fine silk as his index and middle fingers ceased their controlled rotations and traveled toward the center of her body. Slowly he slipped one and then the other inside her, causing her muscles to twitch and her head to lean back against the glass, her lower lip sneaking between her teeth in a shallow effort to restrain the low moan that shook from her lungs. Every press and slight twist of those fingers brightened the flush in her cheeks and drove her purpose further and further from her thoughts; as his unoccupied hand began to travel over the side of her body, she forgot her reason for visiting him entirely.

Loki's fingertips traced the curve of Natasha's breast, his light touch nearly drawing goosebumps over her snowy skin. His lips began to whisper a soft trail of kisses along the line of her jaw, and all at once she needed to drop her hands down to his shoulders for something a bit more firm to hold onto; her knees were growing weak. The scent of mint and clear, December mornings wound around her; his deep breathing drowned out the sound of the fluorescent lights; she could still taste him on her tongue, and every muscle in her body quivered and called out at his touch.

_"_ _Natasha,"_  he murmured against her lips. Her watercolor eyes sprang open at the sound of his voice, so heavy and strained, weighted down by desire and some other desperate quality mirrored in the emerald fire of his intent gaze.  _"_ _Natasha,"_  he repeated slowly,  _"_ _tell me what you want."_

It never occurred to Natasha that, in this one moment, she was the one in control. Like a moth to a flame, Loki lured her into his glittering, burning eyes until she felt consumed by them. Thoughtlessly, she answered him,  _"_ _I want—"_

Loki's hand left Natasha's chest and clamped firmly over her mouth, pinning her head against the glass and muffling her last few words against his skin. She promptly gave an angry whine and shoved at his shoulders, but he tightened his fingers over her cheeks and threw a look so cold at her out of the corners of his eyes that she immediately fell silent and ceased her struggles.

Only a few moments passed, the agent's heart thundering in her chest, before the faint sound of hard footsteps reached her ears. Panic forced her round eyes wide as she attempted to turn her head, to look through the glass at who was approaching, but Loki held her in place. A black cloud seemed to pass over his face, drained of what little color it possessed, before he shifted to the side slightly and let his forehead rest against the glass beside her.

Natasha trusted that he had some sort of illusion in place to conceal them both; each time she checked the security footage after she left him, the tapes reflected the same thing: the two of them interacting on opposite sides of the glass. Sometimes they merely seemed to stand and talk, sometimes he made the two of them sit on the floor. Once he projected them playing chess, Natasha moving his pieces for him at his direction. They had never been interrupted like this before, however; to her knowledge, only a handful of people had access to this floor at all. She had no idea what he was doing to fool whoever was coming down there, and frankly, she couldn't tell whether she was more unnerved by that or by the implications of an unexpected visit from a stranger.

She watched over Loki's shoulder as a fully dressed illusion of himself rose to its feet across the cell and began to approach. The footsteps came to a halt behind her bare back, and the only thing that kept her from turning to look at the visitor was her fear of somehow breaking Loki's concentration. Instead she watched on, eyes still flooded with mute panic, as the illusion opened its mouth and began, "My, but this is unexpected—"

"Save it," interrupted the harsh voice of the visitor.

The illusion pulled up short.

Natasha's eyes slipped closed and she trembled beneath Loki's hands.

"You've taken advantage of our hospitality for long enough. Time to start talking," Clint said firmly.

The illusion released a low chuckle. "I have been very cooperative," it pointed out smoothly. "And I hardly believe that this," it gestured around the cell, "qualifies as hospitality."

A moment passed, and then Clint retorted, "Two sentences every few days doesn't count as cooperative in my book. You're gonna have to do a hell of a lot better than that."

"Or you'll do what, exactly?" the illusion pushed.

"Find out."

The illusion delivered a patronizing smirk. "If it is information you desire, you would have done better to bring your partner. Perhaps you would care to fetch her for me?"

Natasha's heart contracted in her chest. She could practically hear Clint's hands balling into fists before he replied, "No, I wouldn't."

"Then I fear we have nothing more to discuss," the illusion said coolly. "Do bring her my regards...should you see her before I do."

"We're not done here," Clint commanded, anger running beneath his words. "You're gonna tell me everything you know, and I mean  _everything_ , and then you're gonna tell me what you did to Agent Romanoff."

A restrained, gleeful grin split the face of the illusion. "I have done nothing," it said lightly, it's shoulders bobbing in an innocent shrug.

"You did  _something_."

"Nothing she did not wish me to do," the false Loki purred, the corners of its mouth curling upward into that familiar, chaotic smile.

Natasha was positive that Loki could feel her heart beating against his own chest. Even from inside the cell she could tell Clint was flaring up as he demanded, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You might ask her directly. Surely she would not lie to you. Of myself, I cannot say the same."

"You'll tell me the truth. What did you do?"

"Is not the better question, what did she wish of me?"

"She didn't wish anything from you."

The illusion let out a long, low hum, the sound trailing away in a dark chuckle as it advanced closer to the glass. "Are you quite sure, Agent Barton?" it asked softly.

"Yes, I am," Clint answered. Natasha's eyes slipped closed and she bit back a whimper. If she hadn't missed the slight tremor in his voice, Loki surely wouldn't.

"You do see better from a distance," the illusion taunted. Clint didn't respond, so it continued, "It is truly remarkable, how deeply your loyalty to our little spider runs. I wonder what she has done to deserve it."

"Funny you should mention loyalty when you don't know the first thing about it," the archer retorted. It was a clumsy effort to turn the tables on the god, and nobody bought it.

The illusion stepped closer to the glass, it's voice, Loki's voice, low and hungry. "On the contrary, I understand a great deal about loyalty. I should, as I have betrayed it and been betrayed often enough," it pointed out. "For instance, I understand that love often breeds loyalty of the most dangerous kind. You do love Agent Romanoff, do you not?"

Clint was silent for a long moment before he quietly said, "You wouldn't know the first thing about that either."

"Wrong again, Hawk," the illusion purred. "Tell me...would you remain so loyal, so in  _love_...if she betrayed you?"

Natasha swallowed hard as she strained to look to either side of her beneath Loki's heavy hand. Her screams rebounded around her skull, held inside by the press of his palm to her lips. She didn't dare move, hit him, or attempt to speak for fear of breaking his illusion, but the panic that same illusion sent surging through her was so great that she may not have been capable of doing any of those things if she tried.

Several seconds slipped by, and then Clint pushed out, "I don't know what you're talking about."

The illusion released a cruel laugh that rebounded around the walls of the cell. "Oh, but I think you do," it goaded. "I doubt that even one such as you, so loyal, so... _in love_...could remain so blind."

"What did you do to her?!" Clint shouted suddenly. The glass vibrated lightly at Natasha's back, and she understood that his fist had connected with it.

Her eyes flickered over to the illusion. She expected it to laugh, to get angry in return, to do anything but allow its smile to simmer down into the kind of slight, predatory grin that a wolf might adopt as it tears into the hot, bleeding carcass of its prey. Slowly, delicately, as though it relished nothing more than the words dripping from its lips, it said, "Things you have but dreamt of doing."

Silence rang throughout the cell and the corridor beyond. Natasha strained her ears in an effort to hear something, anything, on the other side of the glass. Her heart continued to hammer in her chest and her eyes watered slightly, whether from fury, relief, or the urge to blink she couldn't tell. The whole world seemed condensed down to that tiny corner of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters; to her, nothing else existed.

Hard footsteps echoed through the corridor, fading by degrees as Clint walked back to the elevator. After a few more long moments, Natasha assumed after he'd stepped through the doors, the illusion dissipated and Loki let out a long exhale. The hand holding her face began to relax.

She drew back her arms and shoved him as hard as she could given the awkward angle, hard enough, at least, to drive him back a step. His other hand finally slipped from between her legs, confusion touching every part of his expression as he stared back at her.

"What?" he asked after a long moment, utterly dumbfounded.

Natasha pulled her suit up over her hips and began shoving her arms into it. "Fuck you," she growled without deigning to look up at him.

"I believe you were about to," Loki returned hesitantly.

Raw anger ripped through Natasha like a white hot brand as her eyes snapped onto the god's, bright and livid enough to put an edge of caution into his stare. Her mouth hung open for a few seconds, working around for something to say to him, but she simply couldn't find the words. Instead she shook her head and tore her eyes away from him, her hands shaking so badly that she could hardly grasp her zipper.

She felt Loki's eyes linger on her as he watched her, evidently trying to puzzle her out. At length, he said quietly, "That was a favor, you know."

"That was not a favor," Natasha snarled as she finally managed to drag the reluctant zipper up her body. "You have no idea what you just did, and you don't care."

"What I've done," Loki replied through gritted teeth, his own temper rising, "is free you from the shackles of a man with whom you want nothing to do."

Natasha's hands closed tightly around one of her belts, the leather strap biting into her skin as she drew herself back up to her full height. Her hands still shook as she wrapped it around herself in an attempt to dress as quickly as possible. A noticeable tremor ran beneath her voice as she told the arrogant creature before her, "You mean the man who saved my life, who gave me a second chance when I ran out of them—"

"That is no reason to stay when he could never give you what you want, what you—"

"You think  _this_  is what I want?" Natasha finally erupted. The belt clasped around her waist and she was on Loki in a second, her defiant snarl pushed right up into his defensive glare. "You think  _you_  could ever give me anything I want? You get—"

"I could give you the world," Loki growled over her, but she didn't relent.

"—get  _jealous_  and you think that gives you the right to—"

"To tell the truth?"

His words stopped Natasha in her tracks. Her mouth still hung open, her retorts trapped in her throat. Her hands, poised to shove him again, hovered in the air between them. The fury in her eyes flickered and wavered uncertainly.

"Does not your hawk deserve to know what his beloved does whilst his back is turned?" Loki pushed, venom pulsing through his low voice. "Has not this charade gone on long enough, as you told me when you arrived? I have but done as you wished, Natasha. I have ended it. I have corrected your  _mistake_."

Natasha shrank back from the god, her soft features pinched in unconcealed hurt and confusion. She turned her back on him and reached for her other belt, adorned with her weapons and harnesses, suddenly repossessed by the urge to leave as quickly as she could. She had to fix this mess, somehow. She wrapped the belt around her waist and clicked it in place. Her hands moved toward the buckles hanging freely around her thighs when the sound of Loki's voice, low and closer than she thought it would be, froze her once again.

"Natasha?" he asked, almost gently.

The agent clenched her jaw and forced her fingers to continue wrapping the leather straps around her leg. "Save it, Loki. I don't need to hear any more of your childish arguments," she forced out, each word a short, spiteful dart.

Loki was silent for several moments, long enough that she was able to finish buckling on her left holster and nearly complete the right as well. Just when she was beginning to think she might be able to get out of there without another word from him, he murmured, "You make me feel like a child."

That simple sentence, spoken so softly, pierced Natasha sharply enough to draw blood. Her fingers quivered as she finished buckling her holster in place, and it took a tremendous amount of effort to avoid fumbling with her wrist cartridges as she slipped them on. She paused when she was fully outfitted, slow seconds ticking by outside the cell. Her heart contracted. Blood rushed through her veins. Her lungs inhaled, exhaled.

Something deep down began to give way.

A high chirp echoed around the cell, startling Natasha badly enough that she jumped. She swallowed hard as her fingers scrabbled at her belt to get at her phone, and when she looked at the screen she nearly rolled her eyes. Tony had sent her a text.

She opened the message and silently read,  _"Someone's been naughty."_


	22. Collateral Damage

Three passports, a spare handgun, a box of hair dye and an emergency go-bag sat collecting dust beneath her bed, but that wasn't an option. She'd have to go back to the apartment, and she couldn't take the chance that Clint might be there.

Stacks of shoe boxes containing completely fresh identities on discs and flash drives practically lined the walls of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, but Fury would know if she snaked one. That wasn't an option, either.

Given the growing conflict between Russia and the United States, she knew her home country probably wouldn't extradite one of its own to the Americans. That might have helped, if she weren't wanted for even more treasonous activity in Russia than practically anywhere else on the planet.

Natasha Romanoff was, for perhaps the first time ever, completely out of options.

There was no protocol, no back-up plan for this situation. Cheating on an Avenger with the god of mischief, who just happened to be considered a war criminal in your corner of the galaxy, and then having that affair exposed simultaneously by another meddling Avenger and the aforementioned war criminal wasn't exactly something they went over on the first day at base camp.

She wished they would have. Maybe then she could have found a solution before she reached the glossy black doors of Fury's office, her pale hand poised to open the gates of Hell.

Low voices murmured on the other side of the door. One was unmistakeably Fury's; the identities of the others she could guess readily enough. Still, she couldn't bring herself to move forward quite yet.

“Romanoff! Ass in here, _now_ ,” came her commander's order.

Natasha flinched. The low voices on the other side of the door extinguished themselves. For the space of a heartbeat, the whole world seemed to have fallen silent.

She swept quickly and quietly into the office.

Fury stood behind his shiny black desk, his arms crossed over his chest. His leather coat, which he wore for roughly ninety-eight percent of his waking life, was discarded across his chair; a bad sign. His eye was already staring at her when she entered the room, and it didn't waver as she came to a stop a couple of feet behind the two occupied chairs opposite the desk.

She laced her fingers together behind her back.

One of the heads visible above the low-backed chairs turned and tilted upward to regard her. Tony's smug face split into a smile that suggested what he was seeing was clearly better than television. “Welcome to the party, Romanoff,” he said easily.

Natasha didn't move a muscle in response, nor did she break Fury's stare.

Tony, undaunted, happily continued, “As I was just explaining to dear old Nick, here, we're all real interested to hear what you've been up to—”

“That's enough,” Fury cut him off. Tony made a dissatisfied noise and mumbled something about manners but fell silent all the same. Without taking his eye off of Natasha, the director continued, “Agent Romanoff, I've just received reports from two separate sources, of varying reliability, that you have been abusing the privileges accorded to you as they pertain to our captive guest. Have you anything to say on this matter?”

As carefully as if she were diffusing a live bomb, Natasha answered, “Which privileges are you referring to?”

“Are you, or are you not, having sex with Loki?”

Evidently Fury didn't have the patience for the game anymore. Natasha wondered just what sort of shitstorm Tony and Clint had created before she came in to wear him down that quickly.

The thought was brief, however, and immediately driven away by her heart thundering against the inside of her chest. Invisible fingers twisted her guts, and she could feel a light layer of sweat beginning to erupt beneath the collar of her catsuit.

Apparently this was the moment of truth, literally. Now she had two options, and exactly one of them carried a chance for her to come out of this mostly on top. She saw that chance, and without bothering to think it all the way through, she seized it.

“Yes.”

The word was blunt, dispassionate, and it carried the weight of a nuclear warhead.

Clint was on his feet in the blink of an eye. Without looking back at Natasha, he shoved the heavy, black leather armchair in which he'd been sitting away from him with such force that it skidded several feet across the gleaming floor and toppled to its side with a clatter. He stalked away from everyone, toward one of the high floor-to-ceiling tinted windows. Natasha still couldn't see his face, but she could tell from the way he ran a hand through his hair and the way the muscles in his neck strained that he would detonate at the slightest provocation.

The agent's display briefly captured Fury's attention. His eye bored into the back of Clint's head with sharp disapproval, but he chose not to address the commotion.

Tony simply stated, with renewed self-righteousness, “Knew it.”

Panic flashed through Natasha then, not because of what Tony had said, but because the truth was finally being revealed. Well, the part she could no longer cover up. Truth, any portion of it, wasn't exactly an old friend to her; all of her basic instincts were telling her that she'd made the wrong choice, that she could have navigated this as successfully as she might any delicate undercover operation with a few carefully placed half-truths, but rationally she knew that wasn't the case. There was a reason why she'd made so many mistakes, enough to get herself caught. The act she may not be able to keep quiet anymore, but her motivations would remain her own.

Still, Fury asked her, “And what  _exactly_ gave you the impression that this even remotely resembled a good idea?” His tone was reminiscent of an exasperated parent admonishing an unruly teenager, dropped off on the doorstep by a police officer in the middle of the night.

Regardless of delivery, the question left Natasha on much firmer ground. Without hesitation, she answered, “It was the only way to make him talk.”

A heavy, sharp sigh, tinged with the ghost of a manic chuckle, escaped Clint, but he said nothing.

She continued, “Men like Loki don't respond to threats, and even if he did, we have nothing to threaten him with. We can't torture him without losing what little rapport we have as well as Thor's trust which, now we're going intergalactic, we need. We can't appeal to his sympathies or better nature because he has none, and we have nothing to bargain with.”

“But we have you,” Fury finished with a nod, a tired edge creeping into his voice.

“Wouldn't be the first time,” Natasha was quick to point out. Miraculously she was keeping her composure in place. Lies and justifications, now they were necessary, she could handle just fine.

“No, but this isn't the usual type of scumbag we're dealing with. This is a godly scumbag with a vendetta,” Fury said. From his relaxing posture and his lack of screaming and or cursing, Natasha could see that he accepted her tactics as valid. With S.H.I.E.L.D. repercussions no longer forthcoming, she allowed herself to relax a little as well, not that the change was outwardly visible.

“And daddy issues. Daddy issues are right up my alley,” she added.

“You have been getting results, that's true. I gotta ask, though. If you really been sneakin' down there as much as Barton says you are, how come we don't have any footage of the two of you...” Fury trailed off and rolled his eye in his head, the final portion of his sentence explained via a sharp wave of his hand.

Natasha shrugged. “Without the Asgardian handcuffs, Loki can still use magic. I assume the cameras show you whatever he wants you to see.”

“Then what the hell's the point of the damn things, we can't see if he's up to anything? Ah, fuck it. Alright, I want you to start keepin' a log when you come and go. Least we'll know where he is some of the time,” Fury said, irritated.

Natasha gave a curt nod and opened her mouth to ask whether he needed anything else from her; however, the voice that snaked out into the room wasn't her own.

Clint had turned to face the small assembly, his rage shining through around the edges of the precarious professional mask he'd strapped to his face, like sunlight framing drawn curtains. “Sir?” he began, a barely perceptible tremor underlying his strained voice. “Is it really a good idea to allow Agent Romanoff continued access to Loki?”

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek. She knew she and Clint were done. He wasn't asking out of concern now, he was asking out of spite.

Fury probably knew it, too; there was a reason Clint wasn't sent on delicate missions. Thankfully, he was having none of it. “You got a better idea?” he challenged.

Clint ran away with the question immediately. “I just don't see why it's necessary. He's already talking, he's giving us things we can use. There's just no point to—“

“To keep collecting information we can use, you mean?” Fury interrupted. “So, you can't see the point in gathering any more intelligence about the untold alien powers which could descend upon the Earth at any moment? You can't see the point in understanding what's out there before it shows up, politely knocks on our door, and shoves a boot up our ass? You can't see the  _point_ in discovering a way to protect ourselves while we still have the chance? Is that what you're tellin' me?”

Natasha's gaze shifted to Clint. His mask was crumbling, and he was beginning to turn an unflattering shade of tomato red. His jaw worked around for something to say, but nothing was forthcoming.

“I'll take that as a 'No, I'm sorry, sir,'” Fury said as he reached to move his coat from his chair to the desk. Seating himself, he added, “My number one priority, Agent Barton, is the safety of this planet. Used to be the safety of the U.S., but I like to think big. If Agent Romanoff is willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that safety, I expect nothing less from you. You got a problem, file a complaint with H.R.”

Clint was still for another moment before he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, yanking the black door violently behind him. Natasha prepared herself for the crash of shattering glass; however, the door stopped short and closed with a gentle hiss. A thick blanket of silence settled briefly over the office.

“Sick burn, Nick,” Tony piped up, the first time he had spoken since being silenced several minutes beforehand. 

Fury raised an eyebrow at the billionaire but otherwise didn't respond. After a few moments, his gaze flicked back up to Natasha and he told her, “That'll be all, Agent.”

Natasha gave a curt nod and fled the room, her every muscle straining for the doors although her movements were easy and controlled. She indulged only a brief hesitation before pulling the glass barrier inward, hoping that enough time had passed for Clint to have moved somewhere else, if not left the building entirely.

He was gone, and once the door swung shut behind her, she breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Her next destination was the roof, the one place in the world that was guaranteed to be empty almost all the time. Thankfully that fact held true when she stepped out onto the moonlit concrete, a light gust of wind throwing her red curls across her face. She walked straight ahead, across to the farthest section of the low wall that encircled the top of the building, and sat with one foot hanging over the edge. The other she pulled in close, one arm hugging her knee to her chest.

The assassin was still trying to decide whether the move she had made in Fury's office, admitting the truth, was the right one. In the end, she had come out mostly on top. Her job was intact, she was allowed to continue seeing Loki, and most suspicion as to her motives she could deflect by citing the necessity of her actions. What did it matter  _why_ she'd started crawling into bed with the maniac? It was a matter of global security. She was saving lives. Possibly everybody's life.

Compared to what she was doing with Loki, her life, her reputation, Clint...those things were just collateral damage...weren't they?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to offer a quick apology to anyone following this story for how long it took me to post a new chapter. University got in the way for a while, but you can expect more regular updates for the remainder of the story - hint, we're coming up on the big conclusion! That said, thank you to everyone who's read this far and left feedback in the comments - it's inspiring and absolutely invaluable to me!


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